Bethlehem Road (26 page)

“And you have some sympathy for Mrs. Ivory,” Drummond added, watching Pitt closely.

“Yes,” Pitt admitted. It was true, he had liked Florence Ivory and felt keenly for her pain, perhaps too keenly, thinking of his own children. But then he had liked other murderers. It was the petty sinners, the hypocrites, the self-righteous, those who fed on humiliation and pain that he could not bear. “But I think it is also possible that we have come nowhere near the answer yet, that it is something we haven’t guessed at.”

“Political conspiracy?”

“Perhaps.” But Pitt doubted it; it would have to be a monstrous one, touched with madness.

Drummond stood up and went to the fire, rubbing his hands as if he were cold, although the room was comfortable.

“We’ve got to solve it, Pitt,” he said without condescension, turning to face him; for a moment the difference in office between them ceased to exist. “I have all the men I can spare raking through the files of every political malcontent we’ve ever heard of, every neorevolutionary, every radical socialist or activist for Irish Home Rule, or Welsh Home Rule, or any other reform that has ever had passionate supporters. You concentrate on the personal motives: greed, hatred, revenge, lust, blackmail; anything you can think of that makes one man kill another—or one woman, if you think that possible. There are enough women in the case with the money to employ someone to do what they could not or dared not do themselves.”

“I’ll have a closer look at James Carfax,” Pitt said slowly. “And I’d better look in more detail at Etheridge’s personal life. Although an outraged husband or lover doesn’t seem likely—not for all three!”

“Frankly nothing seems likely, except a remarkably cunning lunatic with a hatred of M.P.s who live on the south side of the river,” Drummond said with a twisted smile. “And we’ve doubled the police patrol of the area. All M.P.s know enough to guard themselves—I’d be very surprised if any of them choose to walk home across the bridge now.” He adjusted his necktie a little and pulled his jacket straighter on his shoulders, and his face lost even the shred of bleak humor it had shown. “I’d better go and see the Home Secretary.” He went to the door, then turned. “When we’ve dealt with this case, Pitt, you’re overdue for promotion. I’ll see that you get it; you have my word. I’d do it now, but I need you on the street until this is finished. You more than deserve it, and it will mean a considerable raise in salary.” And with that he went out of the door and closed it, leaving Pitt standing by the fire, surprised and confused.

Drummond was right, promotion was long overdue; he had forfeited it previously by his attitude towards his superiors, by insubordination not by his acts but by his manner. It would be good to have his skills recognized, to have more command, more authority. And more money would mean so much to Charlotte, less scrimping on clothes, a few luxuries for the table, a trip to the country or the sea, maybe in time even a holiday abroad. One day she might even see Paris.

But of course it would mean working behind a desk instead of on the street. He would detail other men to go out and question people, weigh the value of answers, watch faces; someone else would have the dreadful task of telling the bereaved, of examining the dead, of making the arrests. He would merely direct, make decisions, give advice, direct the investigations.

He would not like it—at times he would hate it, hate being removed from the reality of the passion and the horror and the pity of street work. His men would hear the facts and return to him; he would no longer be aware of the flesh and the spirit, the people.

But then he thought of Charlotte with Emily’s unopened letter in her pinafore pocket, waiting until he had gone because she did not want him to see her face when she read about Venice and Rome, about the glamor and romance of wherever Emily was now.

He would accept the promotion—of course he would. He must.

But first they must catch the Westminster Cutthroat, as the newspapers were calling him.

Could it possibly be James Carfax? Pitt could not see in that handsome, charming, rather shallow face the ruthlessness necessary to kill three people, one after the other, merely to gain his wife’s inheritance, no matter how much he wanted it.

What about Helen? Did she love her husband enough, want to keep him enough to commit such crimes, first for him, then to protect herself? Or him?

He spent all day pursuing finances. First he found the record of the sale of Helen Carfax’s painting, then he traced further back to see if she had sold other things and found that she had—small sketches, trinkets, a carving or two—before she’d sold the painting whose absence he had noticed. There was no way of proving what she had used the money for without searching her own personal accounts, and possibly not then. It could have been for gowns and perfumes, to make herself more attractive to a wandering husband, or for jewelry, or perhaps for medical expenses, or presents for James or even for someone else. Or maybe she gambled—some women did.

He reached home a little after six, tired and dispirited. It was not only the difficulty of the case, it was the thought of promotion, of guiding other men rather than doing the work himself. But he must never let Charlotte know his feelings or it would rob her of any pleasure in the rewards it would bring. He must disguise his feeling of loss.

She was in the kitchen finishing the children’s tea and preparing his. The whole room was warm, softly glowing from the gas lamps on the wall as the light faded in the sky outside. The wooden table was scrubbed clean and there was a smell of soap and hot bread and some kind of fragrant steam he could not place.

He went to her without speaking and took her in his arms, holding her closely, kissing her, ignoring her wet hands and the flour on her apron. And after her first surprise she responded warmly, even passionately.

He got it over with straightaway, before he had time to think or regret.

“I’m to be promoted! Drummond said as soon as this case is finished. It will mean far more money, and influence, and position!”

She held him even harder, burying her face against his shoulder. “Thomas, that’s wonderful! You deserve it—you’ve deserved it for ages! Will you still be out working on cases?”

“No.”

“Then you’ll be safer too!”

He had done it, told her without a shadow, without her suspecting anything but joy and pride. He felt a moment of terrible isolation. She did not even know what it cost him; she had no idea how intensely he would rather be on the street, with people, feeling the dirt and the pain and the reality of it. It was the only way to understand.

But that was foolish. Why else was he telling her like this, but precisely because he did not want her to sense his misgivings! He must not spoil it now. He pushed her away a little and smiled at her.

She searched his face, and the brilliance in her eyes turned to questioning.

“What is it? What is wrong?”

“Just this case,” he answered. “The further I look into it the less I seem to have hold of.”

“Tell me more about it. Tell me about this latest victim,” she invited him. “I’ll get your dinner. Gracie’s upstairs with the children. You can explain it to me while we eat.” And taking his agreement for granted she took the lid off the pan and stirred it once or twice, filling the kitchen with a delicious odor. Then she lifted plates out of the warming oven and served mutton stew with thick leeks and slices of potato and sweet white turnips and a touch of dried rosemary that gave it sharpness and flavor.

He told her all that he had omitted on his previous, rather scattered accounts, which had been more emotional than logical, together with the little of value he had learned since and the skeletal knowledge he had of Cuthbert Sheridan.

When he had finished she sat for several minutes in silence, looking down at her empty plate. When at last she did look up there was a deep color in her cheeks and the half shame-faced look of embarrassment and defiance he had seen so many times before.

“How?” he said quietly. “How are you involved? It’s nothing to do with us, any of us. And Emily’s in Italy—isn’t she?”

“Oh yes!” She seemed almost relieved. “Yes, she’s in Florence. At least, the letter I got this morning was from there. She may be somewhere else by now, of course.”

“Well then?”

“Great-aunt Vespasia ... sent for me.”

He raised his eyebrows. “To discover the Westminster Cutthroat?” he said with heavy disbelief.

“Well, yes, in a way... .”

“Explain yourself, Charlotte.”

“You see, Africa Dowell is the niece of Great-aunt Vespasia’s closest friend, Miss Zenobia Gunne. And they think the police suspect her—quite rightly, as it turns out. Of course I didn’t tell them it was you!”

He searched her face for several moments and she held his gaze without flinching. She could keep a secret, sometimes, and she could be evasive, with difficulty, but she was no good at all at lying to him, and they both knew it.

“And what have you discovered?” he asked at length.

She bit her lip. “Nothing. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Well I made friends with Amethyst Hamilton—”

“How on earth did you do that? Does Aunt Vespasia know her?”

“No—I just lied.” She looked down at the table, embarrassed, then up again, meeting his eyes. “She and her stepson loathe each other so much they cannot even be civil, but I can’t see anything in that which could lead to murder. She’s been married for many years, and nothing new has happened ...” she trailed off.

“And,” he prompted.

“She inherits quite a lot of money, but that’s hardly a reason, especially not—” Again she stopped.

“Not what?”

“I was going to say, not to kill Etheridge and Sheridan as well, but I suppose that doesn’t necessarily follow, does it?”

“Not necessarily,” he agreed. “It could be that the last two murders were close to hide the one that matters, or they could have been committed by a copycat. I don’t know.”

She put out her hand and gently covered his. “You will,” she said with conviction, but he was not sure whether it was her mind or her heart which spoke.
“We
will,” she added, as if as an afterthought.

C
HARLOTTE SET OUT
the following morning on the omnibus to see Great-aunt Vespasia. It was a sparkling spring day, the air mild and the sun warm. It would be lovely to be in the country, or even in one of the fashionable squares with all the new leaves bursting and the sound of birdsong. Perhaps she and Pitt would be able to go to the country for a weekend this summer. Or longer—a whole week?

In the meantime she thought of the small things she could buy with the extra money Pitt would have. A new hat would be an excellent start, one with a very large brim, and pink ribbon on it, and flowers—big cabbage roses with golden centers, they were so becoming! One should wear it at a certain angle, up at the left and a little down over the right brow.

And she could get two or three muslin dresses for Jemima, instead of having to make do with only one best one for Sundays. Should she get pale blue, or a very soft shade of green? Of course, people said that blue and green should never be worn together, but personally she liked the combination, like summer leaves against the sky.

She employed the entire journey in such pleasant thoughts, so much so that she was almost carried past her stop, which would have been very annoying, since there was a considerable distance to walk anyway. People like Great-aunt Vespasia did not live on the routes of the public omnibus.

She climbed off with indecent haste and all but fell over as she reached the pavement. She ignored the critical comments of two large ladies in black, setting off at a very brisk pace towards Great-aunt Vespasia’s town house.

She was admitted at once and shown into the morning room, where Vespasia was sitting with a pen in her hand and several sheets of writing paper in front of her. She put them aside as soon as Charlotte came in.

“Have you discovered something?” she asked hopefully, dispensing with the formalities of greeting.

“It is as bad as we fear.” Charlotte sat down immediately. “I did not tell you before that it is Thomas who is handling the case! I was afraid Zenobia might not believe I could be open-minded, and I thought that if you knew it might place you in something of an embarrassing position. But it is Thomas who went to Mrs. Ivory, and he does indeed think it may be she. They’ve got everyone possible out looking for anarchists, revolutionaries, Fenians, and anyone else who might be political, but no one has found anything at all. The only ray of light, if you can call anything so tragic a light, is that Mrs. Ivory would have no sane reason for killing Cuthbert Sheridan.”

“Not a light I care for,” Vespasia said grimly.

“And Thomas will be promoted as soon as the case is solved.”

“Indeed?” Vespasia’s silver eyebrows rose minutely, but there was satisfaction in her eyes. “Not before time. You must tell me when it is official, and I shall send him a letter of congratulation. Meanwhile, what can we do to help Zenobia?”

Charlotte noted that she had said Zenobia, not Florence Ivory. She caught her eye and knew the choice was deliberate.

“I think it is time for a little cold reason,” Charlotte said as gently as it was possible to say such a thing. “Thomas says they have done everything they can to discover a conspiracy of any political or revolutionary nature, and they can find nothing whatsoever. Indeed, it seems hard to imagine any political end that would be served by such acts, unaccompanied by any demand for change or reform. Except, of course, anarchy—which seems to me to be something of a lunatic idea anyway. Who can possibly benefit from that?”

Vespasia looked at her with impatience. “My dear girl, if you imagine that all political aims owe either their conception or their execution to unadulterated sanity, then you are more naive than I had supposed!”

Charlotte felt the color climb in her cheeks. Perhaps she was naive. She certainly had not mixed in the circles of government that Vespasia had, nor heard the private dreams of those who wielded power, or aspired to. She had indeed imagined them to have a degree of common sense, which on consideration might well be an unfounded conclusion.