Silence in Hanover Close (5 page)

“The man who was murdered was Robert York,” she said briskly. “The widow is Mrs. Veronica York, of Hanover Close.” She stopped. He was smiling broadly.

“Not difficult at all,” he said confidently. “I used to know her. In fact . . .” He hesitated, apparently uncertain how indiscreet to be.

Emily felt a stab of jealousy that was quite uncharacteristic. She knew it was extremely silly; she was thoroughly aware of his reputation. And anyway, she was a woman who had never cherished delusions. She knew perfectly well that men held themselves accountable to quite a different set of standards from those they expected of women. It was only necessary never to be so flagrant that others could not affect ignorance; what they suspected was irrelevant. All realistic people knew as much. Judicious blindness was the only way to preserve peace of mind. But it was a standard Emily was becoming increasingly impatient with, even though she knew her feelings were foolish, and highly impractical.

“Did you part in a manner which would allow you to take up the acquaintance again?” she said crisply.

His face fell. “Certainly!”

She looked down, not wanting him to guess at any emotion in her, certainly nothing as unattractive as the truth.

“Then will you? With Charlotte? As you say, it would be impossible for me.”

“Of course,” he said slowly, and she knew he was looking at her. “But will Pitt approve? And I can hardly introduce her as a policeman’s wife. We’ll have to think of something better.”

“Thomas won’t have to know. She can come here first, borrow one of my dresses, and go as . . .” She searched her imagination. “As a cousin of yours up from the country. A close cousin, so it will not be in the least improper for you to accompany her without a chaperone.”

“Will she agree to that?” There was already interest in his voice, and not the incredulity he might have felt towards someone else. Perhaps he was remembering Cardington Crescent.

“Oh yes,” Emily said with intense determination. “Certainly she will.”

Two days later, handsomely dressed in one of Emily’s winter gowns adapted from last season—she had bought nothing but black this winter—Charlotte found herself in a smart carriage bowling along Park Lane towards Hanover Close, with Jack Radley beside her. He had called at the York house immediately upon parting from Emily. He left his card and asked if he might introduce to them his cousin, Miss Elisabeth Barnaby, who was newly come up from the country after nursing her aunt through a long and distressing illness, from which she was at last mercifully recovered. Now Miss Barnaby was in need of a little diversion, and for this reason Jack had presumed on an old acquaintance, in the hope he might introduce her.

The reply had been brief, but perfectly civil, quite enough upon which to call.

Charlotte pulled the rug tighter round her knees. The carriage was bitterly cold and it was raining hard outside, daggers of water stabbing the gutters, hissing under the wheels and spraying high. The leather upholstery inside felt damp to the touch—even the wood of the window frames was clammy. Emily’s dress was excellent, since her maid had let it out across the bosom and lengthened the cuffs an inch, all very suitable for a young woman recently come up from the country: while not obviously secondhand, neither was it of the latest fashion, such as might be worn by someone in no need of introduction. But Charlotte was still cold.

The carriage stopped. She glanced quickly at Jack Radley beside her and swallowed, feeling a tight flicker of apprehension. This was a very rash thing she was doing. Pitt would be furious if he knew, and the chance of being caught was very real. It would be easy enough to make a crucial mistake or slip of the tongue; she might have the misfortune to meet someone who had known her before her marriage, when she still moved in such circles.

The door was opened and Jack waited to hand her down. She stepped out, wincing against the cold needles of rain. She felt no better about the impending visit, but she could hardly remain in the carriage and say she had changed her mind. She weighed her sense of caution and the anticipation of Thomas’s anger against the excitement she had felt when she and Emily discussed the plan.

She was still of two minds when the parlormaid opened the front door and Jack handed her his card, which was engraved with his name.
And Miss Elisabeth Barnaby
had been added by hand. Now it was too late; the die was cast. Charlotte put on her most charming smile and stepped inside.

The parlormaid had a creamy complexion and dark hair. She was very pert, with wide eyes and a handspan waist; but then parlormaids were usually chosen for their looks. A handsome parlormaid was a mark of one’s status and taste.

Charlotte barely had time to glance round the hall, except to notice that it was spacious. The stair was wide and remarkably fine, with beautifully carved bannisters, and the chandelier blazed with light on this dark winter afternoon.

They were shown into the withdrawing room. There was no time to look at the furnishings or the paintings; all Charlotte’s attention was taken up by the two women who sat opposite each other on the overstuffed and buttoned red settees. The younger, who must be Veronica York, was tall, and perhaps a good deal too slender for the current fashion, but there was an intense femininity in the delicate lines of her shoulders and throat. Her soft black hair was swept up and off her face, showing a lovely brow and fine features, slightly hollow cheeks, and a startlingly sensuous mouth.

The older woman had thick, curly light brown hair; her curls were so rich no rags or irons could have created them, only nature. She looked to be considerably shorter than the other woman. Although she was of heavier build, she was still extremely comely in an embroidered gown of the latest fashion. Her features were regular and she had obviously been something of a beauty well into her prime. She was only just beyond it now, and the telltale lines on her pink and white skin were few, and round the mouth rather than the eyes. It was a face of arresting strength. This must be Loretta York, the dead man’s mother, whom Thomas had said behaved with such dignity on the night of the tragedy.

As mistress of the house she welcomed them, inclining her head to Jack and offering her hand. “Good afternoon Mr. Radley, how agreeable of you to call, and to bring your cousin.” She turned to Charlotte with a scrutinizing eye. “Miss Barnaby, I believe you said?”

Charlotte put on the most innocent air she could imagine and all but curtsied. She was supposed to be shy and grateful, seeking London Society and, as a single woman of desperate age, a husband.

“How do you do, Mrs. York. It is most kind of you to receive us.”

“I hope we find you as well as you look, ma’am.” Jack’s flattery was automatic; it was the usual coin of exchange, and he had dined out most of his adult life on his charm. “You make me forget it is winter outside, and several years since we last met.”

“I see your manners have not changed,” she said a trifle tartly, but there was a flush of pleasure in her cheeks. She might protest, discard it as convention, but she liked it all the same. “Of course you know my daughter-in-law,” she said, indicating the younger woman with no more than a glance in her direction.

Jack bowed again, very slightly, but enough for grace.

“Of course. I was most grieved to hear of your loss, and I hope that the future will hold some happiness for you.”

“Thank you.” A tiny smile touched the corners of Veronica York’s lips. Watching closely, Charlotte could see there was an old understanding between them that had been picked up effortlessly. A thought of Emily flashed into her mind, and she pushed it aside. That was another problem, to be faced at another time.

Veronica was looking past Jack and assessing Charlotte, judging the cut of her gown, its newness, its cost, as was Loretta. Charlotte was satisfied that it communicated her new status precisely—it was the gown of a country woman somewhat retired from Society by duties of compassion, but of good family and more than adequate means.

“I do hope you will find London to your liking, Miss Barnaby,” Veronica said graciously. “There will be much to divert you, but of course you must take care, because there is also company you would not wish, and it is easy enough to find yourself in distasteful places if you are not wise in your choices.”

Charlotte seized the chance. She smiled shyly. “That is most kind of you, Mrs. York. I shall be sure to take your advice. A woman’s reputation can be so quickly ruined.”

“Quite,” Loretta agreed. “Pray do be seated, Miss Barnaby.”

Charlotte thanked her and sat carefully on a stiff-backed chair, arranging her skirt. For a moment she was reminded with unpleasant clarity of the time before her marriage when she had often been in situations something like this. She had been escorted by her mother to all the right functions, shown off to best advantage in the hope that some eligible man would be attracted and a suitable marriage arranged. Always she had ended by expressing too forceful an opinion upon something, or laughing inappropriately, or being altogether too willful and failing to charm—quite often on purpose. But then she had thought herself in love with her elder sister’s husband, and the idea of marrying anyone else had been unspeakable. How long ago, how girlish, that seemed now! Nevertheless she remembered the relentless good manners, the pursuit of fashion, and all directed towards finding a husband.

“Have you been in London before, Miss Barnaby?” the elder Mrs. York was inquiring, her cool gray eyes summing up Charlotte’s very handsome figure and noting the tiny needle holes where the bodice had been let out.

For once Charlotte did not mind. This was only a part she was playing. And she must remember to observe closely, so as to have something to report back to Emily.

“Oh yes, but not for some time, owing to my aunt’s illness. Happily she is quite recovered, and I am free to take up my own life again. But I do feel I have missed so much. I imagine a great deal has happened in Society since.”

“No doubt,” Mrs. York said with a tiny smile. “Although there is a certain sameness in events from year to year, and only the people’s names change.”

“Oh, I think the people are quite different also,” Veronica argued. “And certainly the theater is.”

Mrs. York shot her a glance that Charlotte noted with interest: critical, then instantly muted; there was no gentleness in it. “You know very little of the theater,” she pointed out. “You have scarcely been till this year.” She turned to Charlotte. “My daughter-in-law is a recent widow. Naturally she has remained in mourning until quite lately.”

Charlotte had already decided to pretend complete ignorance of the affair in Hanover Close and anything to do with it. She put on an instant expression of sympathy.

“I am so sorry. Please accept my deepest condolences. I should not have troubled you had I known.” She turned to Jack, who studiously avoided her eye.

“It has been three years,” Veronica said into the rather awkward silence. She looked not at her mother-in-law’s face but downward to the rich wine-colored brocade of her own skirt, then back at Charlotte. “We too are taking up our lives again.”

“
You
are.” Mrs. York’s tone made the distinction delicate, but perfectly plain. It was charged with emotion, but try as she might, Charlotte could not define it. Was she reminding the younger woman that her own loss of a son was irreplaceable, and somewhat deeper than the loss of a husband, since Veronica planned to remarry? There seemed more in her face than awareness of her daughter-in-law’s pain, or even envy, or anything so vulnerable as self-pity. Her small, strong hands were white in her lap, and her eyes were glittering and sharp. Had not such an idea been so out of place, even ridiculous, Charlotte might have thought it a warning of some sort. But that was groundless, and an inaccurate observation.

Veronica’s full lips curved upwards in a tiny smile. Clearly she understood the significance of the reply.

“Indeed, Mr. Radley, you may congratulate me,” she said, looking up at him. “I am to be married again.”

In that instant Charlotte made a mental note that Veronica York and Jack Radley had certainly had a friendship that was more than merely amicable, at least on her part.

Jack smiled as if it were a happy surprise to him. “I hope you will have every blessing and good fortune.”

“And so do I,” Charlotte added. “I hope sadness will be completely in the past for you.”

“You are something of a romantic, Miss Barnaby,” Mrs. York remarked with her eyebrows raised. She was almost smiling, but there was a coldness in her that was palpable, something hard deep inside that was unresolved. Perhaps it was an old wound, and nothing to do with this. One never knew what pain or disillusion lay in other people’s lives, what lost hopes. Charlotte must endeavor to meet the Honorable Piers York at some time; it might explain much that she could only guess at now.

She smiled as dazzlingly at Mrs. York as she could. “Oh, but of course. Even if the reality is not always as one would wish, I hope for the best.” Was that the right sort of naïveté, or had she overdone it? She must not sit here for the brief half hour that was socially acceptable, and then leave again without having learned a thing. It would be some time before she could call again.

“So do I,” Veronica reassured her. “And it is most kind of you. Mr. Danver is an excellent man, and I am sure I shall be very happy.”

“Do you paint, Miss Barnaby?” Mrs. York asked, changing the subject abruptly, this time without looking at Veronica. “Perhaps Mr. Radley might take you to see the winter exhibition at the Royal Academy. I daresay it may interest you.”

“I don’t paint very well.” Let them take that as modesty, or the truth, as they chose. Actually, like all well-bred young ladies, she had been taught to paint, but her brush was never equal to her imagination. Since she had married Pitt and had two children, her only hobby had been meddling in his cases and detecting a great deal. She had a gift for it—even Pitt admitted so—but she could hardly own to that now!

“I had not supposed you to enter a work, Miss Barnaby, merely to observe,” Mrs. York replied with a small gesture of her hand, a wry dismissal of foolishness that stung Charlotte. But in her role as Miss Barnaby she was helpless to retaliate. “No skill would be required,” Mrs. York continued, “except to look elegant and speak modestly. I am sure you could do both of those with the greatest of ease.”