Cardington Crescent

13

IT WAS LATE the following morning when Pitt returned to Cardington Crescent. The euphoria of capturing Clarabelle Mapes had vanished, and in the dull, warm daylight he remembered that he had gone to Tortoise Lane to find out what Sybilla March had wanted there. And he had learned nothing. No amount of questioning was going to get anything more from Clarabelle, and none of the children had ever seen a lady like Sybilla.

The butler let him in and he asked that Charlotte be sent for. He was permitted to wait in the morning room. It was oppressive, curtains half drawn, pictures draped with black, black crepe fluttering in unlikely places like cobwebs stained with soot.

Charlotte came in, dressed in exquisitely fashionable lavender; it flickered through his mind that it was a gown of Aunt Vespasia’s altered a little at the bosom to fit Charlotte. Vespasia never wore black, even for death.

Charlotte was pale; there were smudges of tiredness under her eyes. But her face lit up with pleasure as she saw him, and he found it extraordinarily good. In a sense deeper than walls or possessions, wherever she was, he would be at home.

“Oh, Thomas, I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said immediately. “Everything is getting worse. We are looking at each other with terrible thoughts in our eyes and strings of words we want to mean, and can’t.” She turned and closed the door behind her and stood leaning against it, staring at him, biting her lips, her hands clenched tightly. “It isn’t Tassie. I’ve discovered what she does at night, where she goes and gets splashed with blood.”

A monstrous anger welled up inside him, sharp as a dagger, because it was principally fear, not only for her but for himself, fear of losing all that was most precious to him, all the deep, warm safety that supported every other courage and dream he held.

“You what?” he shouted involuntarily.

She closed her eyes, her face tight. “Don’t shout, Thomas.”

He strode forward and took her by the arm, pulling her away from the door and around to face him in the center of the room. He was hurting her and he knew it.

“You what?” he repeated fiercely. The very fact that she had remained by the door instead of coming to him and kissing him, that she had not replied with any righteous anger of her own, meant that she was conscious of her guilt. “You followed her!” he accused with certainty.

Her eyes opened wide and there was no apology in them.

“I had to find out where she went,” she explained. “And it was perfectly all right—she goes to help deliver babies! A lot of poor women, or unmarried women—girls—can’t afford a midwife. That’s why so many die. Thomas, it’s a wonderful thing she’s doing, and the people love her.”

He was too angry at the idiotic risk she had taken to be relieved that Tassie’s conduct was so innocent, where he had feared such horror. Without realizing it he was shaking Charlotte.

“You followed her to some woman’s home, alone, at night?” He was still shouting. “You ... you fool! You imbecile! She could have taken you anywhere! What if she had been responsible for the woman whose body was found in bloody pieces in Bloomsbury? You might have been the next one!” He was so furious he could have slapped her, as one does a beloved child who has just escaped falling under the carriage wheels. In the rush of relief one dares to imagine all the possible dangers so narrowly missed. Memory of Clarabelle Mapes and the appalling labyrinth he had so lately left were stronger in him than this comfortable, civilized house. “You stupid, irresponsible woman! Do I have to lock you up before I can leave the house safely and be sure you’ll behave yourself like an adult?”

What had begun as guilt in her was now overridden by a sense of injury. He was being unjust and she was correspondingly angry in her own right. “You are hurting me,” she said coldly.

“You deserve to be thrashed!” he retaliated without altering his grip in the slightest.

She answered by kicking him sharply in the shins with the toe of her boot. He was so surprised he let go of her with a gasp and she stepped back smartly.

“Don’t you dare treat me like a child, Thomas Pitt!” she said furiously. “I am not one of your dainty ladies who do nothing all day and can be ordered to their rooms whenever you don’t like what they say. Emily is my sister, and she’s not going to be hanged for killing George if there is anything at all that I can do to help it. Tassie is in love with Mungo Hare, Beamish’s curate—he helps her with the deliveries—and she is going to marry him.”

He clung to the only other example of male reason and dominion he could think of.

“Her father won’t let her. He’ll never allow it.”

“Oh, yes, he will!” she retorted. “I’ve promised him you won’t tell anyone about his affair with Sybilla if he agrees, and if he doesn’t I shall make thoroughly sure all Society knows of it in detail. He’ll give Tassie his blessing, I assure you.”

“Do you?” He was incensed. “You take a great deal for granted! And what if I don’t choose to honor this promise you gave so freely on my behalf?”

She hesitated, swallowing hard, then met his eyes. “Then Tassie will not be able to marry the man she loves, because he is not socially suitable and has no money,” she said bluntly. “She’ll remain single and live here in bondage to that selfish old woman, keeping her company till she dies, and then doing the same for her father. Either that or she’ll have to marry someone she doesn’t love.”

She did not need to add that that was what might well have happened to her, had her father not been of a more amenable disposition than Eustace, and had her mother not pleaded her cause with force. Pitt was aware of it, and the knowledge robbed him of the justification he wanted. She had done exactly what he would have wished; it was the fact that he had been preempted that enraged him, not the act. But to say so aloud would be ridiculous—in fact, the complaint was ridiculous.

He chose to change the subject entirely, and play his best card. “I have solved the murder of the corpse in the Bloomsbury churchyard,” he said instead. “And captured the murderess, after a chase, with enough evidence to hang her.”

Charlotte was impressed, and she let her amazement and admiration show in her face. “I didn’t think that would be possible,” she said honestly. “How did you do it?”

He sat down sideways on the arm of one of the hide chairs. He was stiff after the bruising he had taken chasing Clarabelle Mapes, and he was surprisingly sore.

“It was a woman who kept a baby farm.”

She frowned. “A what?”

“A baby farm.” He hated having to tell her of such things, but she had chosen to know. “A woman takes out discreet advertisements saying that she loves children and will be happy to care for any infant whose mother, due to circumstances of ill health or other commitment, is unable to care for it herself. Often they add that sickly children are particularly welcomed and will be nursed as if their own. A small financial provision is required, of course, for necessities.”

Charlotte was puzzled. “There must be many women only too glad to avail themselves of such a service. It sounds like a charitable thing to do. Why do you say it with such disgust? Too many women have to work and can’t care for their children, especially if they are in domestic service, and the child is illegitimate—” She stopped. “Why?”

“Because most of them, like Clarabelle Mapes, take the fee from their mothers and then let the sickly ones starve—or actually murder them—rather than spend money on caring for them. The strong or pretty ones they sell.” He saw her face. “I’m sorry. You did ask.”

“Why the Bloomsbury murder?” she asked after a moment’s silence. “Was she the mother of one of the children who was murdered, and discovered the truth?”

“One who was sold.”

“Oh.” She sat down without moving for several minutes, and he did not touch her. Then at last he put out one hand gently. “Why did you go there?” she asked at last.

“The address was in Sybilla’s book.”

She was startled. “The baby farm? But that’s ridiculous. Why?”

“I don’t know. I never found out. I presume Sybilla found it for a servant, one of her own maids or a friend’s. I can’t imagine any of her own circle wanting such a service. Even if they had an illegitimate child, they would find some other provision; a relative in the country, a family retainer in retirement with a daughter.”

“I suppose it was a maid,” Charlotte agreed. “Or else she knew the woman for some other reason. Poor Sybilla.”

“It doesn’t help me any further towards finding out who killed her, or why.”

“You asked the woman, of course?”

He gave a sharp, guttural little laugh. “You didn’t see Clarabelle Mapes, or you wouldn’t ask.”

“Have you no idea who killed George?” She faced him, eyes dark with anxiety, fear heavy at the back of them. He realized again how tired she was, how very troubled.

He touched her cheek gently, slowly. “No, my love, not much. There are only William, Eustace, Jack Radley, and Emily left; unless it was the old woman, which I would dearly like to think, but I know of no reason she would. I can’t even imagine one—and believe me, I’ve tried.”

“You include Emily!”

He closed his eyes, opening them slowly, unhappily. “I have to.”

There was no point in arguing; she knew it to be true. A knock on the door saved her from the necessity of replying.

“Come in,” Pitt said reluctantly.

It was Stripe, looking apologetic and holding a note in his hand.

“Sorry, Mr. Pitt, sir. The police surgeon sent this for you. It don’t make no sense.”

“Give it to me.” Pitt reached out and grabbed it, opening the single sheet and reading.

“What is it?” Charlotte demanded. “What does it say?”

“She was strangled,” he replied quietly, his voice dropping. “By her hair, quick and hard. Very effective.” He saw Charlotte shiver and, out of the corner of his eye, saw Stripe bite his lip. “But she wasn’t carrying a child,” he finished.

Charlotte was stunned. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure!” he said irritably. “Don’t be idiotic. This is from the surgeon who did the postmortem. You can hardly mistake such a thing!”

Charlotte screwed up her face as if she had been physically hurt, and bent her head into her hands. “Poor Sybilla. She must have miscarried, and she dared not tell anyone. How she must have hated Eustace going on and on about how marvelous it was she was going to give William an heir after all this time. No wonder she looked at him with such loathing. And that dreadful old woman haranguing about family! Oh, God, what wounds we inflict on people!”

Pitt looked at Stripe, who was obviously embarrassed at such an intimate subject and hurt by the pity he felt but only half understood. He realized this was a whole sea of pain he did not comprehend.

“Thank you,” Pitt nodded. “I don’t think it helps us, and I see no reason to tell the family. It will only cause unnecessary distress. Let her keep her secret.”

“Yes, sir.” Stripe withdrew, something like relief in his face.

Charlotte looked up and smiled. She did not need to praise him; he knew it was there in all the unsaid words between them.

Luncheon was as miserable as breakfast had been, and Emily sat at the dining room table more in defiance than because of any delusion that it would be more endurable than eating alone in her room. An additional incentive was the growing conviction that the ring was tightening round her, and unless she could find her own escape she was going to be charged with murder.

Charlotte had told her about following Tassie and discovering the secret of her midnight excursions and the blood on her dress. A difficult delivery could be a very messy affair; the afterbirth could look, in the glare of lamplight, like the gore of a butchery. And no wonder Tassie had worn such a look of calm delight! She had witnessed the beginning of a new life, the last act in the creation of a human being. Could anything at all be further from the madness of which they had suspected her?

Thomas had been here this morning, had spoken to Charlotte and left again, without explanation or, apparently, any further investigation. Although, to be fair to him, Emily could think of nothing else for him to ask.

She looked round the table at them from under her lashes, so no one would notice, while she pushed a lump of boiled chicken round her plate. Tassie was sober, but there was a glow of happiness inside her that no awareness of others’ distress could extinguish. Emily found most of her could honestly be pleased for her; only a tiny core, one she would willingly have quenched, was sharp with envy. Then she felt an unclouded sense of relief that there was no reason on earth to suspect Tassie of any kind of guilt, either in George’s death or Sybilla’s. Emily had never wanted to think there was; it was a necessity forced on her by Charlotte’s extraordinary account of the episode on the stairs. Now that was explained in a way better than she could have dreamed.

At the foot of the table, with its snowfield of a cloth and fine Georgian silver, but flowerless in spite of the blaze in the garden, the old woman sat, dour-faced, in black, her fish-blue eyes staring straight ahead of her. Presumably she had not been told either about Tassie’s intention of marrying the curate or of Eustace’s capitulation in allowing her, still less of his reason. And most assuredly she had not learned of Tassie’s midnight excursions. If she had, there would be far more in her present mood than a cold dislike and, perhaps, at the back of that chill expression and the petty angers, a suffocated fear. After all, it was someone in this house who had murdered twice. Even Lavinia March could not pretend to herself it was a foreign force invading her home; it was something within—a part of them.

But she seemed to remain alone in whatever mourning she suffered; it had not driven her to any softening of heart, any understanding of the fear in anyone else. Emily was aware somewhere in the back of her mind that that was perhaps the greatest tragedy of all, far beyond the need to receive pity—the inability to feel it. And yet she could not evoke in herself compassion for those who gave none themselves.

She would dearly have liked to believe the old woman responsible for murder, but she could think of no reason why she should be, nor any evidence whatsoever which suggested that she was. Mrs. March was the only one in the house whose guilt would cause Emily no unhappiness at all. She racked her brain to find anything to support it, and failed.

As if conscious of her thoughts, the old woman looked up from her plate and gazed at her icily. “I imagine after the funeral tomorrow you will be returning to your own house, Emily,” she said with lifted eyebrows. “Presumably the police will equally easily be able to find you there—although most else seems to be beyond them!”

“Yes, certainly I shall,” Emily answered tartly. “It is only for the convenience of the police that I have stayed here so long—and to show some family solidarity. There is no need for the rest of Society to know how little we find each other’s company agreeable, or seem able to offer each other any comfort.” She took a sip of her wine. “Although I don’t know why you think the police are unable to solve the murders.” She used the ugly word deliberately and was pleased to see the old woman wince with distaste. “They undoubtedly know a great deal that they have not chosen to tell you. They will hardly confide in us. After all, it is one of us whom they will arrest.”

“Really!” Eustace said angrily. “Remember yourself, Emily! That kind of remark is quite unnecessary.”

“Of course it is one of us, you fool!” the old woman snapped at him, her hand shaking so hard her wine slopped over the rim of her glass and ran down onto the cloth. “It is Emily herself, and if you do not know that you are the only one here who doesn’t!”

“You are talking nonsense, Grandmama.” William spoke for the first time since they had come into the dining room. In fact, as far as either Emily or Charlotte could recall, he had not spoken at breakfast either. He looked ghostlike, as if Sybilla’s death had taken all his own vitality as well. Charlotte had said earlier that she was afraid he might collapse at the funeral, so gaunt did he seem.

The old woman swung round on him, opening her mouth, but then she registered the expression on his face and closed it again.

“I, for one, don’t know that it was Emily,” he went on. “The motive of jealousy you credit to her might equally well do for me, although in fact it doesn’t. The affair was trivial at best, and over with anyway, which both Emily and I knew. You may not have, but then it was none of your business.” He stopped and took a sip from his glass of water; his voice was rough, as though his throat ached. “And the other motive you imagine for her, that of an infatuation with Jack; while quite believable—she would certainly not be his first conquest—”

“William!” Eustace shouted, banging his hand flat on the table to make as much noise as possible and sending the silver and crockery jumping. “This conversation is in the worst possible taste. We are all prepared to allow your grief some latitude, but this is beyond bearing!”

William stared back at him with burning contempt, his eyes brilliant, his mouth pinched with violent emotion long held in and hidden.

“Taste is a personal thing, Father. I find many of your conversations as ‘distasteful’ as anything I have ever said in my life. I frequently find your hypocrisy quite as obscene as all the vulgar picture postcards of naked women. They, at least, are honest.”

Eustace gasped, but was not quick enough to stem the tide of anger. He was aware of Charlotte next to him, because she had pushed out her foot under the table to kick him fairly sharply on the ankle. The ridiculous scene under Sybilla’s bed was not allowed to fade for a moment from his memory. He clenched his teeth and remained silent.

“But as a motive it is hardly worth murder,” William went on. “She could perfectly well have had Jack as well, if she had wanted him—and there is no evidence that she did. Whereas, on the contrary, if he had wanted her—or to be more accurate, George’s money, which she inherits—then he had an excellent reason for murdering George.”

Emily sat rigid, acutely aware of Jack Radley beside her, conscious that he had stiffened in his seat. But was it guilt, or embarrassment, or simply fear? Innocent people were hanged sometimes. Emily herself was afraid; why should not he be?

But William was not finished. “Personally,” he went on, “I favor Father. He had excellent reasons, which just in case he is innocent, I shall not discuss.”

There was total silence round the table, Vespasia set down her knife and fork, touching her napkin delicately to her mouth once and lying it aside. She looked at William and then down at the tablecloth, but she said nothing.

Eustace was pale and Charlotte could see his fists were clenched in his lap. The veins stood out on his neck till she feared his collar would strangle him, but he also did not speak.

Tassie hid her face. Mrs. March was scarlet, but for some reason afraid to break the silence. Perhaps nothing she dared say was adequate to her outrage.

Jack Radley looked wretched and acutely embarrassed, the only time Charlotte had seen his composure completely shattered. Although she was perfectly aware how likely it was that he was guilty—not only of double murder but of the most callous abuse of a woman’s emotions, and that he had fully intended to abuse them further—still she liked him better for seeing him at a loss. It gave him a reality beneath the charming smile and the marvelous eyes.

Emily stared straight ahead of her.

In the end it was the footman with the next course who broke the silence, and the meal proceeded with a saddle of mutton no one tasted and a trivial conversation no one could have recalled a moment after it was spoken.

After the dessert Emily excused herself and retired to the rustic seat in the garden, not because it was a pleasant day—indeed it was overcast and seemed very likely to rain—but because she felt it her best chance of being alone, and there was no one whose company she desired.

Tomorrow was Sybilla’s funeral; she stayed because she wished to attend it. Now that Sybilla was dead, all Emily’s hatred of her had vanished. The ridiculous affair with George had receded to a far different proportion of importance. He had regretted it. He had been robbed of the chance to undo it, so she would wipe it out for him, cherishing all the other memories that were good. They had shared a great deal; if she allowed Sybilla to rob her of all those things, then she was a fool, and she deserved to lose them.

She had not seen Charlotte alone since Pitt called that morning, except for an instant as they came through the hall towards the dining room. But that had been enough to learn that he still had little idea who had murdered George, or why. Presumably it was the same person who had then killed Sybilla. She must have known something which the killer could not afford her ever to tell.

That did not exclude anyone. Sybilla was a clever and observant woman. She may have understood some word or act that had eluded the rest of them, or even been told something by George.

What could George have known? Emily sat hunched up in the damp, rising wind, pulling her shawl round her and raking through every possibility her mind could imagine, from the absurd to the horrific. At the end she was still left with Jack Radley, and her own clumsy complicity, or else William’s rather wild attempt to blame Eustace—and she was obliged to admit she believed that born more of hatred than sense.

She did not hear Jack Radley approach, and only when he was almost above her did she realize he was there. He was the last person she wanted to speak to at all, still less be alone with. She pulled her shawl even tighter round her and shivered.

“I was just thinking of going inside,” she said hastily. “It is not very pleasant. I wouldn’t be surprised if it rains.”

“It won’t rain yet.” He sat down beside her, refusing to accept dismissal. “But it is cold.” He slipped off his jacket and put it gently round her shoulders; it was still warm from his own body. She thought his hand lingered a moment longer than necessity required.

She opened her mouth to protest but did not, unsure that she would not be making herself ridiculous. After all, they were in clear view of the house, and she had no reason to wish herself back there. Luncheon had been ghastly, and no one would believe she wanted to pursue its conversations. And he had removed from her the excuse of being cold.

He interrupted her train of thought. “Emily, have the police any idea who killed George yet? Or were you just defying the old woman?”

Why was he asking? She wanted to be free to like him; she felt a happiness in his company like sunlight through a garden door at the end of a long passage. Yet she was terribly afraid it was deceptive.

“I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “I didn’t see Thomas this morning, and I only spoke to Charlotte for a moment as we came in to luncheon. I have no idea.” She forced herself to face him; it was just a fraction better than imagining his eyes.

His expression was full of concern. Was it for her or for himself?

“What did Eustace mean?” he said urgently. “Emily, for heaven’s sake think! I know it wasn’t me, and I refuse to believe it was you. It has to be one of them! Let me help you, please. Try to think. Tell me what William meant.”

Emily sat paralyzed. He looked so earnest, but he had lived by his charm for years; he was a superb actor when it was in his own interest. And this could be a matter of survival. If he had killed George they would hang him. The fact that she liked him did not cloud reason. Some extremely virtuous people could also be extremely boring, and admire them as one might, one shrank from their company. And the cruelest people could be very funny—until the essential ugliness snowed through.

He was still talking, his eyes on her face. Could she look at him and keep the balance to disbelieve? She had always had sense, far more sense than Charlotte. And she was a better actress, more skilled in masking her own feelings.

She met his gaze squarely. “I don’t know. I think he just hates Eustace and would like it to be him.”

“That leaves only old Mrs. March,” he said very quietly. “Unless you think it was Tassie, or Great-aunt Vespasia. Which you don’t.”

She knew what he was thinking now—it took only one step in reasoning, an inevitable step. It was Jack or Emily herself. She knew she had not murdered George and Sybilla, but she was growing increasingly afraid he had. Worse than that, she feared he still intended to court her.

He took her hands. He was not rough, but he was far stronger than she, and he did not mean to let go.

“Emily, for heaven’s sake think! There is something in the March family that we don’t know, something dangerous or shameful enough to cause murder, and if we don’t find out what it is, you or I may very well be hanged for it instead!”

Half of her wanted to scream at him to be quiet, but she knew it was true. Giving way to hysterics now would be stupid and destructive—perhaps even fatal. Charlotte had got nowhere, except to discover Tassie’s secret, which as it turned out was irrelevant. Emily would have to save herself. If Jack Radley were innocent, together they might discover something. If he were guilty and she played along with him, perhaps she would trick him into betraying something, however small. It could be survival.

“You are quite right,” she said seriously. “We must think. I shall tell you everything I know, then you will tell me. Between us we may finally deduce the truth.”

He smiled very slightly, not quite believing her.

She made an effort to deny the fear she felt—not only the great and overshadowing knowledge of danger from the law and the enduring judgment of Society, but the inner loneliness and the belying warmth he offered, which it would be so easy to accept. If only the poisonous suspicion in her mind could be crushed. She had to force herself to remember that he was still the most likely murderer. The thought hurt even more than she expected.

“Tassie goes out at night alone, to help deliver babies in the slums,” she said rather abruptly.

If she hoped to startle him she succeeded magnificently. He stared at her while emotions teemed across his face: incredulity, fear, admiration, and lastly, pure delight.

“That’s superb! But how in God’s name do you know?”

“Charlotte followed her.”

He cringed, letting his breath out between his teeth in a little hiss and shutting his eyes.

“I know,” she said quietly. “I expect Thomas was furious.”

“Furious!” his voice rose. “Isn’t that something of an understatement?”

Immediately she was defensive. “Well, if she hadn’t, we’d still be thinking it was Tassie! Charlotte saw her coming upstairs in the middle of the night with bloodstains on her hands and dress! What else should she do? Let it remain a mystery? She knows I didn’t murder anyone—”

“Emily!” He caught her hands.

“—and if we don’t find who it is, I could be arrested and imprisoned—”

“Emily! Stop it!”

“—and tried, and hanged!” she finished harshly. She was shaking in spite of the closeness of him, and the strength of his hands holding hers. “People have been hanged wrongly before.” Memories, stories teemed in her mind. “Charlotte knows that, and so do I!” It was a relief to put it into words, to drag the real terror out of the darkness at the back of her mind and share it with him.

“I know,” he said quietly. “But it is not going to happen to you. Charlotte won’t let it—neither will I. It has to be someone in this house. Vespasia has the courage, if she thought such a thing were necessary. But she would never have killed George, and I don’t think she would have had the physical strength to kill Sybilla—not the way it was done. Sybilla was a young, healthy woman... .” He hesitated, remembering.

“I know,” she said without pulling her hands away from him. “And Aunt Vespasia is not young, and not strong anymore.”

He smiled bleakly. “I wish I could think of a reason why old Mrs. March would have done it,” he said with feeling. “She’s twice Vespasia’s weight. She’d have the power.”

Emily looked at their locked hands. “But why would she?” she said hopelessly, anger and frustration welling up inside her. “There’d have to be a reason.”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Unless George knew something about her.”

“Like what?”

He shook his head. “Something about the Marches? She’s choked up with family pride. I’m damned if I know why. They’ve plenty of money, but no breeding at all. It comes from trade.” Then he laughed at himself. “Not that I wouldn’t be glad of a little of it! My mother was a de Bohun, traces her family back to the Conquest. But you can’t even buy a good meal with that, let alone run a house.”

A wild series of thoughts clashed and jostled in her mind. Had he killed George hoping to marry her for the Ashworth money? But then, what about Tassie? Any man with sense would have chosen that marriage; it was infinitely safer, and his for the asking—or he must have thought so. He didn’t know about Mungo Hare. Or did he? Was he really so astounded by the news of Tassie’s midnight expeditions as he pretended to be? If Charlotte had followed her, so could he—at least, as far as seeing the young curate and realizing Tassie would never marry anyone else. Or perhaps Tassie had even told him herself? She was honest enough. She might have chosen not to delude him with false hope—not of love, but of money.

Emily shivered. She wanted to look at him—surely she had some ability of judgment left. And yet she also dreaded what she would see, and what she would reveal of herself. But as long as it remained undone it would crowd out all other thought from her mind. It was like vertigo, standing at the edge of a high balcony with the compulsive desire to look down, feeling the void pulling at you.

She looked up quickly and found his eyes worried, serious; she could see no deceit in them at all. It solved nothing. To find ugliness there might have freed her, let her believe the worst of him and kill the hope that—that what?

She refused to put it into words. It was too soon. But the thought stayed at the edge of her mind, something to move towards, beckoning her like a warm room at the end of a winter journey.

“Emily?”

She recalled her attention. They had been talking about the old woman. “She might have done something scandalous in her youth,” she offered. “Or maybe her husband did. Perhaps we should learn more of how the Marches got all their money—it could be something that would put an end to any idea of a peerage. Perhaps George knew of it. After all, it was her—” She swallowed. “Her medicine that was the poison.”

Memory of death came back sharp and cold, physically painful, and the tears stung in her eyes. She found she was clinging to his hand so hard she must be hurting him, but he did not pull away. Instead he put his arm round her and held her, touching her hair with his lips, whispering words that had no meaning, but whose gentleness she felt with an ease that made weeping not an ache but a release from pain, an undoing of the hard, frightened knots inside her.

She realized that she wanted the solution to the crime almost as much for him as for herself. She longed with an intense need to know that he was untouched, unmarked by it.

Charlotte also was happy to be alone, and spent some time in the dressing room which was her bedroom, repeating in her mind all that she had learned since the first news of George’s death right up to Pitt’s departure this morning.

It was half past three when she went downstairs with the small spark of an idea she wanted to disbelieve. It was ugly and sad, and yet it answered all the contradictions.

She was in the withdrawing room, almost at the curtains which half covered the French doors to the conservatory, when she heard the voices.

“How dare you say such a thing in front of everyone!” It was Eustace, loud and angry. His broad back was to the doors and beyond him she could just see the sunlight on William’s flaming hair. “I can forgive you a lot in your bereavement,” Eustace went on. “But that insinuation was appalling. You as good as said I was guilty of murder!”

“You were perfectly happy to see Emily blamed—or Jack,” William pointed out.

“That’s entirely different. They are not part of us.”

“For God’s sake, what has that got to do with it?” William demanded furiously.

“It has everything to do with it!” Eustace was growing angrier, and there was an ugly note in his voice, as if the dark and unrefined mass of inner thoughts were too close to the frail surface of manners that overlaid them. “You betrayed the family in front of strangers! You suggested there was something secret and shameful which you knew and others didn’t. Have you no conception what a meddling and inquisitive busybody that Pitt woman is? The dirty-minded little chit will never rest until she either uncovers or invents something to fit your wild ramblings. God knows what scandal she’ll start!”

William moved back a step; his face was twisted with pain and contempt. “She’ll have to be very dirty-minded indeed to get to the depths of your soul, if that is not too grand a word for it. Perhaps belly would be more apposite?”

“There’s nothing wrong with a man having stomach,” Eustace said with answering scorn. “I sometimes think if you had more stomach and fewer airy-fairy ideas you’d be more of a man! You mince around dabbling in paints and dreaming of sunsets like a lovesick girl. Where’s your courage? Where’s your heart, your manliness?”

William did not answer. Beyond Eustace, standing with his back to her, Charlotte could see the white, almost deathlike look on William’s face, and she could feel pain in the air like the hot settling of condensation on the lily leaves and the vines.

“Great God!” Eustace shouted with unutterable disgust. “No wonder Sybilla took to flirting with George Ashworth! At least he had something in his trousers besides his legs!”

William winced with revulsion so acute Charlotte thought for a moment he had actually been struck. She was so offended for him herself that she felt sick; her hands were clammy and hurt with the strength of her clenched fists. Yet she still stood transfixed, listening, with a terrible foresight.

William’s answer when it came was quiet, heavy with irony.

“And you expect me to be discreet for you in front of Mrs. Pitt? Father, you have no sense of the ridiculous—indeed the grotesque.”

“Is it grotesque to expect a little responsibility from you?” Eustace shouted. “Family loyalty? You owe us that, William.”

“I owe you nothing but my existence!” William said gratingly between his teeth. “And that was only because you wanted a son for your own vanity’s sake, it was nothing to do with me. You want to continue your name. A perpetuation of little Eustace Marches all down through eternity, that’s your idea of being immortal. With you it would be the flesh! Not an idea, not a creation, but an endless reproduction of bodies!”

“Ha!” Eustace said explosively, with overpowering derision. “Well, I missed my chance with you, didn’t I? In twelve years of marriage you couldn’t beget a child till now. And it’s too late! If you’d played about less with paints and more in the bedroom, perhaps you’d have been more of a man, and none of this damn tragedy would have happened. George and Sybilla would be alive, and we wouldn’t have the police in the house.”

The conservatory was motionless; it seemed even the water did not drip.

Charlotte realized the tragic truth. The explanation was clear, like the hard, white daylight of early morning, showing every weakness, every flaw and pain. Without taking time to think or weigh any consequence she seized a china vase off the nearest small table and smashed it on the parquet floor, sending the pieces shivering noisily across the wide surface. Then she turned and ran back across the withdrawing room, through the dining room, and out into the hallway to where the telephone instrument was installed.

She picked it up and clicked the lever urgently. She was not used to it and was unsure exactly how it worked. Her ears were straining to catch the sound of Eustace coming after her.

There was a woman’s voice coming through the speaker at her ear.

“Yes!” she said quickly. “I want the police station—I want to speak to Inspector Pitt. Please!”

“Do you want the local police station, ma’am?” the voice asked calmly.

“Yes! Yes, please!”

“Hold the line, please.”

It seemed an age of clicking and buzzing, during which she was acutely aware of the dining room door behind her and every tiny creak of boards or whisper which could be a door opening wider or the softness of a shoe on carpet. At last she heard a man’s voice at the other end of the line.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry, Inspector Pitt ain’t here. Can I give ’im a message when ’e comes in? Or can somebody else ’elp you?”

It had not occurred to her that he might not be there. She felt helpless, cut off.

“You there, miss?” The voice sounded anxious.

“Where is he?” She was beginning to panic. It was stupid, and yet she did not seem to be able to help herself.

“I can’t rightly tell you that, miss, but ’e left about ten minutes ago in a cab. Can I ’elp you?”

“No.” She had been so sure she could reach him, the thought of having to manage alone was worse now. “No, thank you.” And with stiff fingers, shivering, she replaced the instrument in its hook.

She had no proof anyhow, only the certainty within her own mind. But now that she knew, there would be ways. The police surgeon ... That was what Sybilla had gone to Clarabelle Mapes for: not to get rid of a baby, but to buy the one William could never give her, to silence the nagging, cruel tongues of the family, the condescension and the demand to satisfy the thoughtless, insatiable, dynastic vanity.

Charlotte was sick with grief for her, her aloneness, her need, the hopeless sense of rejection. No wonder she had had affairs, had turned to George. Was that what George had died for? Not because he had made love to her, or stolen her affections, but because in a moment’s foolishness, from a need to justify herself, she had betrayed to generous, indiscreet George the secret too agonizing to be spoken even in the mind—let alone aloud for others to know, to pity, to make obscene and humiliating jokes over. There would always be the nudges and the jeers, the brazen manhood exhibited with a snigger. To men like Eustace virility was more than a physical act—it was proof of his existence, of potency and value in all of life.

And William had loved Sybilla—that Charlotte knew from far more than the words in the letters from the vanity case—with a love worth infinitely more than Eustace’s narrow, physical mind could climb to. But in that one instance of weakness she had threatened his belief in himself, the respect every man must have to survive—not inwardly, where he had learned to bear it, but in Society, and, worst of all, among his family. Eustace was so close to the truth already, cruel and thrusting, intruding, like a rape of the spirit. What would he do if he knew? Forever pry at it till there was no dignity left, nothing unviolated by the constant remarks, the prurient, mocking eyes, the knowledge of superiority.

And so Sybilla had died, too, strangled by her own, beautiful hair before she could betray him again, perhaps to Jack.

The bought child William might have accepted, even understood, perhaps more easily than one conceived to another man. But he could never have accepted the shame.

Charlotte was still standing in the hallway wondering what to do. Both Eustace and William must have seen her; she had smashed the vase precisely so they should know she was there and stop that terrible hurting. Did they know how much she had overheard? Or were they so caught up in wounding each other that her momentary interruption was incidental, to be forgotten as soon as she left?

Without knowing what she intended other than perhaps to stop Eustace, she began back towards the dining room, past its gleaming, sunlit table, through the double doors to the withdrawing room, all smooth greenness and pale satins reflecting the light, and back to the entrance to the conservatory. There was silence now, and no sign of Eustace or William. The French doors were open wider, and the smell of damp earth came into the withdrawing room.

She stepped through them slowly onto the walk between the vines. She need not have come; there was nothing for her to do, except wait until she could find Pitt and tell him. If it were not for Emily and the fear that would hang over her forever, she would be tempted not to say anything. She did not feel any desire to be an instrument of justice, no sense of satisfaction or resolved anger.

The camellia bush was covered with flawless blooms, perfect rosettes. She did not like them. The canna lilies were better; irregular, assymetrical. The condensation dripped heavily into the pool. Someone should have opened the windows, even though it was a dull day.

She came to the space cleared at the end, where William had his studio, and stopped abruptly. She wanted to weep, but she was too tired and too cold inside.

There were two easels set up. On one was the finished painting of the April garden full of subtle loveliness, dreams, and sudden cruelty. The other was a portrait of Sybilla, realistic, without flattery, and yet with such a tenderness it laid open a beauty in her few had perceived so clearly in life.

In front of them, crumpled rather awkwardly on the stone floor, William lay, the palette knife having slipped from his hand, the blade of it scarlet, only inches away from the wound in his throat. With an artist’s knowledge of anatomy he had sliced the vein in one clean movement. He had understood the smashed vase perfectly and saved her the last ghastly confrontation.

She stood staring at him. She wanted to bend and lay him straighter—as if it could make any difference now—but she knew that she must not touch anything. She remained there, silent, hearing the water trickling on the leaves and the sound of a flower head dropping, petals rotted.

At last she turned and walked slowly under the vines, back through the French windows, and saw Eustace coming in from the dining room. With a violence that startled her, the long path up to the tragedy stood out clearly in her mind; the years of demanding, expecting, the subtle cruelties. Her fury exploded.

“William is dead,” she said harshly. “I’m sorry. I really am sorry. I liked him—probably far more than you ever did.” She looked at his shocked face, the open mouth and pallid skin, without any gentleness. “He killed himself,” she went on. “There was nothing else left for him, except arrest and hanging.” She found her voice was choking as she said it. She let all her scalding emotions pour out at Eustace.

“I—I don’t know what you mean!” he said helplessly. “Dead? Why? What happened?” He moved towards her, floundering a little. “Don’t just stand there, do something! Help him! He can’t be dead!”

She blocked his way. “He is,” she repeated. “Don’t you understand yet, you stupid, blind man?” She could feel the thickness tightening her throat. She wanted him to know the maiming he had caused, absorb it into itself and become one with it.

He stared at her as if she had struck him. “Killed himself!” he repeated foolishly. “You are hysterical—he can’t have!”

“He has. Don’t you know why?” She was shivering.

“Me! How could I know?” His face was ashen, the first pain of belief beginning to show in his eyes.

“Because it was you who drove him to it.” She spoke more quietly now, as if he were an obstinate child. “Trying to make him into something he wasn’t—couldn’t be—and ignoring all that he was. You with your obsession with family, your pride, your vulgarity, your—” She stopped, not wanting to expose William to his contempt, even now.

He was bewildered. “I don’t understand... .”

She closed her eyes, feeling helpless.

“No. No, I suppose you don’t. But maybe you will one day.”

He sat down on the nearest chair, huddled as if his legs had failed him, still looking up at her.

“William?” he repeated very quietly. “William killed George? And Sybilla—he killed Sybilla?”

Now the tears burned in her eyes. She saw Vespasia in the dining room doorway, white as the wall behind her, and beyond, gentle and untidy, the figure of Pitt.

She made her decision. “He thought there was an affair,” she said slowly to everyone, the words difficult, the lie catching on her tongue. “He was wrong—but it was too late then.”

Eustace was staring at them with the beginnings of comprehension, a glimmer of what she was doing, and even why. It was a world he had not imagined, and he was frightened by his own crassness.

In the doorway Pitt put his arm round Vespasia, supporting her, but he looked over her shoulder at Charlotte. He smiled, his face blurred with pity.

“That’s right,” he said deliberately. “There’s nothing more for us to do now.”

“Thank you,” Charlotte whispered. “Thank you, Thomas.”

_______________________________

1 Resurrection Row.

2 The Cater Street Hangman.

3 Death in the Devil’s Acre.

4 The Cater Street Hangman.