Cardington Crescent (21 page)

“He’s perfectly all right,” he assured her. “You’ve only been gone a couple of days.”

But she was not satisfied. “What about the tooth? Are you sure he isn’t feverish?”

“Yes, I’m quite sure. Gracie says he’s fine, and eating all his meals.”

“He won’t eat cabbage. She knows that.”

“May I have my handkerchief back? It’s the only one I’ve got.”

“I’ll get you one of—of George’s. Why haven’t you got any handkerchiefs? Isn’t Gracie doing the laundry?”

“Of course she is. I just forgot.”

“She should put it in your pocket for you. Are you all right, Thomas?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“I’m glad.” But her voice was doubtful. She sniffed, and then changed her mind and blew her nose again. “I suppose you don’t know anything about George yet. I don’t. The more I watch the less I seem to see.”

He put his hand on her shoulder gently, feeling her warm beneath his touch.

“We will,” he said with more conviction than he had any grounds for. “It’s too soon yet. How is Emily?”

“Feeling ill, and frightened. I—I think she found letting Edward go back with Mrs. Stevenson the hardest thing. He’s so awfully young—he doesn’t understand. But he will, soon. He’ll—”

“Let’s solve today’s problems first,” he interrupted. “We’ll help with Edward after—”

“Yes, of course.” She swallowed again and unconsciously rubbed her hands over her skirt. “We must know more about the Marches. It was one of them, or ... or Jack Radley.”

“Why do you hesitate before you mention him?”

She looked down, avoiding his eyes. “I suppose—” She stopped.

“Are you afraid Emily encouraged him?” he asked, hating to say it. But if he did not it would still hang between them; they knew each other too well to lie, even by silence.

“No!” But she knew he did not believe her. It was the answer of loyalty, not conviction. “I don’t know,” she added, trying to find something closer to the truth. “I don’t think she meant to.” She took a deep breath. “How are you getting on with the Bloomsbury case? You must be busy with that as well.”

“I’m not.” He felt a heaviness as he said it. He had no hope of solving that, and no solution would show anything more than a common tragedy he was incapable of preventing again. It was only the grotesqueness of the corpse that marked it in the public mind.

She was looking at him; puzzlement gave way to understanding. “Isn’t there anything? Can’t you even find out who she was?”

“Not yet. But we’re still trying. She could have come from anywhere in a dozen directions. If she was a parlormaid dismissed for immoral conduct, or even because the master of the house made advances to her and the mistress found out, then she could have taken to the streets to earn a living, and been killed by a customer, a pimp, a thief—anyone.”

“Poor woman,” Charlotte said softly. “Then it’s hopeless.”

“Probably. But we’ll keep on a little longer.”

She stared at him fiercely. “But this isn’t hopeless here! Whoever killed George is one of us in this house right now. It’s Jack Radley, or one of the Marches.” She frowned, fighting with herself for a moment and then coming to some decision. “Thomas, I have something very—very ugly to tell you.” And without stopping to watch his face or allow interruption, she recounted exactly what she had seen at the head of the stairs in the middle of the night.

He was confused. Had she been dreaming? She had certainly had enough cause for nightmare in the last few days. Even if she had been awake and really gone to the landing, might not the abrupt arousal from sleep, the flickering of the dim gas night-light, have misled her vision, caused her to imagine blood where there were only shadows?

Now she was staring at him, waiting, looking in his face for an answering horror.

He tried to mask doubt with amazement. “Nobody’s been stabbed,” he said aloud.

“I know that!” Now she was angry, because she was frightened, and she knew he disbelieved her. “But why does anyone creep up the stairs in the small hours reeking of blood? If it was innocent, why has nothing been said? She was perfectly normal this morning. And she wasn’t distressed, Thomas! I swear she was happy!”

“Say nothing,” he warned. “We won’t learn anything by attacking openly. If you are right, then there is something very evil indeed in this house—in this family. For God’s sake, Charlotte, be careful.” He took her by the shoulders. “Perhaps Emily’d better go home, and you go with her.”

“No!” She resisted him, pulling away, her head coming up. “If we don’t find out who it is, and prove it, Emily could be hanged, or at best have the doubt stain her all her life, have people remember and whisper to each other that she might have killed her husband. And even if that were bearable for Emily, it’s not for Edward!”

“I’ll find out without you,” he began grimly, but her face was tight and her eyes hot.

“Maybe. But I can watch and listen in a way you never can, not in this house. Emily is my sister, and I’m going to stay. It would be wrong to run away, and you wouldn’t argue with me about that. And you wouldn’t run.”

He weighed it for a moment. What would happen if he tried to order her home? She would not go; her loyalty to Emily at this moment was greater, rightly so. All his emotion strained backwards, wanting, demanding that she run from the danger; his reason knew it was cowardice, fear for his own pain should anything happen to her. But if he failed to solve this crime, if Emily were hanged, then he would have lost all in his relationship with Charlotte that gave it fire and value.

“All right,” he said at last. “But for the love of heaven, be careful! Someone in this house is murderous—maybe more than one!”

“I know,” she said very quietly. “I know, Thomas.”

Later in the afternoon, Eustace sent for Pitt to come to him in the morning room. He was standing, hands in his pockets, in front of the unlit fireplace, still in the clothes he had worn at the funeral.

“Well, Mr. Pitt?” he began as soon as the door was closed. “How are you proceeding? Have you learned anything of value?”

Pitt was unprepared to commit himself, least of all to say anything about Charlotte’s story of Tassie on the stairs.

“A great deal,” he replied levelly. “But I am not yet sure as to its value.”

“No arrest?” Eustace persisted, his face brightening and his broad shoulders relaxing, making the well-cut jacket sit more evenly without the tensions in the weave. “You don’t surprise me. Domestic tragedy. Told you so in the first place. I daresay a nursing home can be found. There will be no shortage of means, and she can be made very comfortable. Best for all of us. Nothing proved. Not possible. No blame attached to you, my dear fellow. Invidious position for you.”

So he was already preparing to have the case closed and all investigation effectively prevented. It would be so easy for the Marches to protect themselves by blaming Emily. They had barely waited till the body was in the ground before beginning, with a small lie here or there, a very discreet conspiracy, for the sake of them all. They might even convince themselves—all but one—that it really had been Emily who murdered George, in a fit of jealousy. And that one would be the keenest of all, whether they betrayed it or not, to have Emily disposed of quietly and the guilt forever apportioned, the case closed.

Worse than that was the wisp of suspicion nagging at the back of his mind that it was not impossible that it had been Emily. He would not say so to Charlotte, and he felt a sting of guilt for the thought. But no one else had mentioned the supposed reconciliation, and without that she had one of the oldest and best motives in the human condition: that of the woman ridiculed and then betrayed. She had been witness to so much of the aftermath of murder, through Charlotte and himself, perhaps the idea was closer in the shadows of her thought than they knew.

“Most unfortunate,” Eustace repeated with increasing satisfaction. “No doubt you did all you could.”

The unctuousness of it, the assumption of his blindness, his willingness to comply, was insulting.

“I have barely begun,” Pitt said harshly. “I shall discover a great deal more; in fact I shall not rest until I have proof as to who murdered George.”

“For heaven’s sake, why?” Eustace protested, eyes wide at such nonsensical behavior. “You can only cause needless pain, to your own wife not least. Have a little compassion, man, a little sensitivity!”

“I don’t know that it was Emily!” Pitt glared at him, feeling angry and helpless and wishing he could beat that appalling certainty out of Eustace. He was standing there squarely in front of the dead fireplace, with all his comfortable possessions round him, disposing of Emily’s life as if she were a household pet that had become troublesome. “There’s no proof!” he said loudly.

“Then you can’t expect to find it, can you?” Eustace was eminently reasonable, his eyes wide. “Don’t blame yourself. I daresay you are perfectly efficient, but you cannot work miracles. Let us deal with it without scandal—for Emily’s sake, and for the child’s.”

“His name is Edward!” Pitt was furious and he could feel himself losing the control which was the core of any intelligent pursuit of truth, but he scrambled after it in vain, his voice rising. “Why do you believe it was Emily? Have you some evidence you’ve not given me?”

“My dear chap!” Eustace rocked back and forth gently, hands still in his pockets. “George was having an affair with Sybilla! Emily knew it, and could not control her jealousy. Surely you realize that?”

“That is an excellent motive.” Pitt lowered his voice with an effort. “For Emily, and for Mr. William March. I can see no difference, unless you believe Emily’s story that she and George were reconciled, in which case the motive is stronger for Mr. March!”

Eustace smiled broadly, his composure quite undisturbed. “Not at all, my dear fellow. First of all, I for one do not believe the story of a reconciliation. Wishful thinking, or very natural fear. But even so, the position for Emily is quite different from that for William. Emily wanted George—indeed, needed him.” He nodded once or twice. “If a husband has affairs a woman has no choice but to accept it as best she may. A wise woman will pretend not to know—that way she does not have to do anything at all. Her home and her family are not jeopardized by a little foolishness. Without her husband she has nothing. Where would she go, what would she do?” He shrugged. “She would be outcast from Society and without a penny to bless herself, let alone to feed and clothe herself and her children.

“On the other hand, for a man it is quite different. I may as well tell you, Sybilla has behaved indiscreetly on other occasions, and poor William resolved not to put up with it any longer. Added to which, she had given him no family, which, although I daresay it is an affliction the poor woman cannot help, it is an affliction nonetheless. He wished to divorce her and take a more suitable wife, who would fulfill a wife’s role for him and be the fount of family joy. He was very pleased Sybilla had at last provided the justification he needed so as not to seem in anyone’s eyes to be unjust, or to cast her aside because she is barren.”

Pitt was staggered. It was something he had not even imagined. “William was going to divorce Sybilla?” he repeated stupidly. “No one said so.”

“Ah, no.” Eustace’s smile grew even more confidential and he leaned forward a little, taking his hands out of his pockets and placing one on the back of the chair to maintain his balance. “I daresay that was the quarrel Emily thought she overheard. Now that Sybilla is going to have a child at last, that naturally changes things. For the child’s sake, William has forgiven her and will take her back. And of course she is very grateful and repentant. I imagine her behavior in future will be all that can be desired.” His face shone with eminent satisfaction.

Pitt was speechless. He had no idea whether it was true, but he knew from his slight knowledge of the divorce laws that what Eustace said was correct: a man might divorce his wife and put her out on the street for adultery, but a woman could do nothing whatsoever by law. Adultery was beside the point, as long as it was he who committed it, and not she.

“I see you understand,” Eustace was saying, the words passing over Pitt’s head like the rattle of water. “Very wise. Least said the better. Treated you to a confidence. Know you won’t repeat it. Trust your discretion. Matters like that are between a man and his wife.” He spread his hands wide, palms up in a confidential gesture from one man of reason to another. “Just told you so you would understand. Poor William has had a lot to put up with, but he should be at the beginning of happiness now. Tragedy poor Emily couldn’t have kept her head—another few days and all would have been well. Tragedy.” He sniffed. “But you can rest assured we shall look after her; she’ll have the best of care.”

“I’m not leaving,” Pitt said, feeling foolish. He must look ridiculous in this sedate room, with its collection of family relics, and Eustace himself as solid as the hide chairs. Pitt had a tumble of hair, his tie was crooked and his coat hung askew, and he had two of George’s handkerchiefs in his pocket. Eustace’s boots were polished by the bootboy every day; Pitt’s were patched on the soles and cleaned by Gracie, when she remembered and had the time. “I’m not finished,” he said again.

“As you wish.” Eustace was disappointed, but not concerned. “Carry out whatever you think is necessary. Make it look fitting, by all means. Don’t want to lose you your job. I’m sure the kitchen will give you dinner, if you like. And your fellow, Stripe, of course.”

Stripe was delighted to have dinner in the kitchen, not because he had any hope at all that he would learn something of value to the case, but because Lettie Taylor was also there, neat and pretty as a cottage garden, and in Stripe’s opinion, every bit as pleasing. He kept his eyes deliberately on his plate, longing to look at her but furiously self-conscious. He was not accustomed to eating in such formal, even hierarchical, company. The butler sat at the head of the table like the father of a large family, and the housekeeper at the foot, as a mother would. The butler presided as if it were a function of great importance, and strict ritual was observed. The junior footmen and youngest maids did not speak at all unless they were spoken to. The lady’s maids, resident and visiting, seemed to be a class apart, both by the house servants’ reckoning and by their own. The senior footmen, kitchen maid, and parlormaid sat in the middle and volunteered a good deal of the conversation.