Silence in Hanover Close

12

CHARLOTTE’S THOUGHTS WERE running parallel to Pitt’s, although at this point, of course, she did not know it. She began by assuming that Pitt was telling the absolute truth. He had looked for Cerise quite openly, and after dogged police work had been approached by someone who had led him to the house in Seven Dials, where he had arrived at precisely the right time to find her with her neck broken, and thus be caught in the appearance of having killed her himself.

Was that a coincidence, or had the killer organized her death to fall just that way, in one act silencing Cerise and disposing of Pitt? A stroke of superb fortune, or genius?

What had Cerise known that was worth the extraordinary risk of killing Dulcie to keep Pitt from her? Surely that had been a far more impulsive and dangerous murder. It must be something damning: the truth about Robert York’s death, or the identity of the spy—which were probably the same thing.

It still seemed most likely that Robert York had been Cerise’s lover, and she had tricked or seduced him into giving her secrets, which she had taken back to her master. Then she and Robert had quarreled, and he had threatened to tell the truth. Either Cerise or her master had murdered Robert to protect themselves.

Then why had Cerise been killed? Had she regretted Robert’s death? Perhaps she had not bargained for murder. Or had she cared for him in her own way? By all accounts he was handsome, elegant, and witty, and apparently had a reserved character that might make him unusually attractive to women. Or had Cerise simply lost her nerve and become a risk to her master, a liability? Had this master figure in the background learned that Pitt knew of Cerise through Dulcie, and attempted to get rid of all those close to him?

Her heart sank with a misery that was becoming familiar. The murderer could be anybody! There was no clue whatsoever as to who had broken the library window and murdered Robert York. Anyone could have gone to the house in Seven Dials if they knew Cerise was there.

But only members of the three families in Hanover Close could have pushed Dulcie out of the window! Charlotte had met them all, had sat and talked with them politely, and one of them was continuing the slow, deliberate, judicial murder of Pitt.

She got up abruptly from her seat by the kitchen stove. It was dark now. Gracie had long ago gone upstairs to bed. There was nothing more she could do tonight; she had twisted her mind round every fact or supposition she knew and the realization was undeniable: she would not solve it by thinking.

They would not let her see Pitt again for another four days. It was useless to ask Ballarat to help, but she might find the person who was actually working on the case, the constable who had questioned the brothel owner, who had seen Cerise’s body. And she must go back to Hanover Close, because that was where the answer was, if only she could find the first thread that would begin the unraveling.

Even though she was weary with anxiety and exhausted from doing all the heavy housework herself, still she slept badly and was awake long before the cold dawn. By seven she was in the kitchen, riddling out the fire herself and building it up. When Gracie came down at quarter past she found it done and the kettle boiling. She opened her mouth to object, then saw Charlotte’s pale face and thought better of it.

By late morning Charlotte was walking briskly in the icy sunlight under the bare trees on the edge of Green Park looking for Constable Maybery. The duty officer at Bow Street had informed her, unhappily, that Maybery was investigating the death of the woman in pink. He had been loath to tell her, but he was even more unwilling to face the prospect of dealing with a hysterical woman in the police station. He hated scenes, and from the look of her flushed face and brilliant eyes, this one might very soon fall into that category.

Charlotte saw the blue figure in his tall hat and cape just as he emerged from Half Moon Street into Piccadilly. She dashed across the road, heedless of oncoming carriages, infuriating the drivers, and caught up with him in a most unseemly run.

“Constable!”

He stopped. “Yes, ma’am? You all right, ma’am?”

“Yes. Are you Constable Maybery?”

He looked puzzled, his round face wrinkled in apprehension.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m Mrs. Pitt, Mrs. Thomas Pitt.”

“Oh.” Conflicting emotions crossed his face: embarrassment followed by sympathy, then an eagerness to speak. “I went an’ saw Mr. Pitt yesterday, ma’am. ’E didn’t look too badly, considerin’.” His eyes flickered doubtfully for a moment. There was no guilt in his expression, however.

Charlotte’s courage returned. It was just possible he did not believe Pitt was guilty. Perhaps that relief in his face was a sign that they were on the same side.

“Constable—you are investigating the death of the woman in pink? What do you know about her? What was her name? Where was she before she came to Seven Dials?”

He shook his head very slightly, but his eyes remained perfectly steady. “We don’t know nothin’ at all about ’er, ma’am. She got to the ’ouse in Seven Dials only three days before she was killed, an’ she gave the name o’ Mary Smith, an’ nobody ever ’eard of ’er before. She said nothin’, and they didn’t ask. O’ course, in that kind o’ business people don’t. But one thing, ma’am, Mr. Pitt seemed very certain as she was—’e said a ‘courtesan,’ very expensive an’ pickin’ ‘er own custom. But I saw the body, beggin’ yer pardon for discussin’ it, ma’am, but the body as I saw in Seven Dials ’ad calluses on ’er ’ands, an’ on ’er knees. Not ’eavy, like, but I seen ’em enough to know ’em. She weren’t livin’ like no expensive kept woman. I reckon as ’e must be wrong about that.”

“But she was!” Charlotte was nonplussed. Whatever she had expected, it was not this! “She was a great beauty! Oh, not traditional, certainly, we knew that. But she was extraordinary; people noticed her. She was very graceful, she had style, panache. She could never have scrubbed floors!”

He stood firm. “You’re wrong, ma’am. She may ’ave ’ad character; since I never saw ’er alive I couldn’t tell. But she were quite ordinary to look at. ’Er skin weren’t particular. Bit sallow. She ’ad good ’air, if yer like it black, an’ she was definitely on the thin side. In fact, I’d say skinny. No ma’am beggin’ yer pardon again, but I seen ’er, and she were ordinary.”

Charlotte stood still on the pavement. A carriage went by at a spanking pace, its brief wind tilting her hat. Then the woman was not Cerise—she must be someone else. Someone else had been killed to put Pitt, and all of them, off her trail. Perhaps it was only a fortunate accident that Pitt had found her at just that moment and had been arrested for her murder—or was that, too, part of the plan? She must be even more important than they had thought.

Then a startling idea came into Charlotte’s mind. It was horrifying, perhaps mad, certainly dangerous—but there seemed to be nothing else left.

“Thank you, Constable Maybery,” she said aloud. “Thank you very much. Please give my love to Thomas, if— if you’re allowed to. And please, don’t mention this conversation. It will only worry him.”

“All right, ma’am, if that’s what you want.”

“Yes, most definitely, please. Thank you.” And she turned round and hurried away towards the nearest omnibus stop. The new idea spun crazily in her mind. There must be something better, something saner and more intelligent—but what? There was no time to wait. There was no one left to question, no physical evidence to produce like a rabbit out of a hat, to force a confession. The only thing was to startle someone violently, forcing a betrayal—and she could think of no other way than the wild idea forming in her mind now.

She did not go home but to Jack Radley’s rooms in St. James’s. She had never been there before, but knew the address from writing to him. Normally he spent as little time there as possible, preferring to be someone’s guest in one of the fine town houses. It was both more pleasant and easier on his frugal finances. But he had promised he would be available as long as this crisis lasted, and she did not hesitate to call upon him.

The building was a good second best, and not an address one would be embarrassed to mention. She asked the porter in the hall and was told courteously, with only the slightest frown, that Mr. Radley’s rooms were on the third floor, and the stairs were to her left.

Her legs were tired when she got there, and there was no view to reward her effort, since his rooms were at the back. She knocked sharply on the door. If he was not there she would have to leave a note. She shifted from one foot to the other impatiently in the few minutes till the door opened—in fact she had been on the point of rattling the handle.

“Charlotte!” Jack looked startled, caught out; then self-concern vanished and he welcomed her in. “What is it? Has something happened?”

She had little time to look round. A few weeks ago she would have been consumed with curiosity—a person’s home said much about them—but now she had neither the time nor the need. Doubts of Jack had died without her noticing. She observed only that the rooms were elegantly furnished but small, and she had economized enough herself to recognize it in others.

“Well?” he demanded.

“I have just met the constable who is investigating Cerise’s death.”

His face darkened. “What do you mean, ‘just met’?”

“I found him.” She brushed the means and the circumstances aside. “Coming out of Half Moon Street. But the important thing is, he described the body. Jack, I’m sure it isn’t her. It was made to look like her, but it was just some poor woman in a pink dress—”

“Just a minute! Why?”

“Because of her hands, but even more her knees.”

His face was incredulous; he looked almost as if he might burst out laughing.

“Calluses,” she exclaimed peremptorily. “From scrubbing floors. But Jack, what it means is that the real Cerise is still alive! And I have an idea. I know it is extreme, even idiotic—but I’ve racked my brains and I can’t think of anything else at all. I need your help. We must go again to the Yorks’, and the Danvers must be there, too, and as soon as possible. Time is getting terribly short.”

Every vestige of humor left Jack’s face. No trial date had been set yet, but it would not be long and he had never pretended to her that it might. Now he listened with total gravity. “What else?” he asked.

“I must know at least two days in advance, so I can make arrangements.”

“What arrangements?”

She hesitated, uncertain whether to tell him. He was likely to disapprove.

“Don’t be stupid!” he said abruptly. “How can I help you if I don’t know what you’re doing? You aren’t the only one with brains, nor the only one who cares.”

She felt for an instant as if he had slapped her. She was about to retort, when the truth of it overwhelmed her. It was surprisingly painless, in fact. All at once she felt less alone than she had since Pitt’s arrest.

“The Danvers come to dinner regularly—next time I’m going to dress up as Cerise and make an assignation with each of the men it might have been,” she said frankly. “Only Piers York, the Danvers, and Felix Asherson were there the night Dulcie was killed. I’ll start with the Danvers, because Aunt Adeline saw Cerise at their house.”

Jack was startled. He hesitated for a long, tense moment, struggling for a better idea himself. When nothing came, he conceded doubtfully. “You don’t look much like her—that is, like the descriptions of her,” he said at last.

“I’ll meet them in the conservatory,” she reasoned. “The light’s very poor in there, and I’ll have the right color dress, and a black wig. If I can pass for long enough to get a reaction it might be enough.” The plan sounded desperate as she described it, a very slim chance, and she felt her hopes, thin as wraiths, drain from her grasp. “If he even knows me, it will prove something!”

He felt her panic and put his hand on her arm gently. “It might be dangerous,” he warned.

Danger would be marvelous; it had the kick and the fire of hot wine, and seemed very close to outright victory. No one would turn up unless he knew Cerise, and if anyone threatened her with violence it could only be because she was too close to the truth.

“I know,” she said with a surge of excitement. “But you’ll be there, and Emily. I need Emily’s help. I’ve worked it all out: I’ll take the dress and wig in a bag and give them to Emily, beforehand; then when we are there after dinner I shall pretend to be faint and excuse myself. Emily will ‘look after’ me, so I can slip up to her room and change. Then she’ll watch and tell me when to go down to the conservatory, she said the Yorks have a large one, to keep my trysts.”

“You’re leaving a lot to chance,” he said anxiously.

“Can you think of anything better?”

He hesitated for a moment. “No,” he admitted. “I’ll do everything I can to keep all the others occupied in the withdrawing room. I’ll make some riveting conversation.” He smiled bleakly. “For heaven’s sake, promise me if there is the slightest danger you’ll scream. I mean it, Charlotte.”

“I promise.” She giggled a little wildly. “Although it would be awfully difficult to explain, wouldn’t it? What on earth should I say I was doing in their conservatory dressed in a hideous gown and a black wig, screaming my head off, when I was supposed to be upstairs with the vapors?”

“I should have to say you’d taken leave of your wits,” he agreed with a very twisted grin. “But better that than dead—and whoever it is has already killed three times.”

Her laughter suddenly stopped, becoming tight in her throat. Bitter tears sprang to her eyes.

“It will be four, with Thomas,” she said.

She made her assignations by letter, using as few words as possible, and leaving them unsigned. She had no idea what Cerise’s handwriting looked like, nor what her real name was. She used expensive notepaper, wrote only the time and place, and instead of sealing the letters in an envelope, she tied each one with a broad piece of ribbon in a vivid, almost painful magenta. It was the best she could do.

Emily had written to her banker and provided money so Charlotte could purchase the dress and the wig, and Jack had taken them to Hanover Close, posing as a coalman this time and carrying coke inside to the kitchen for them. How he arranged it Charlotte never knew, and she was too preoccupied with her own preparations to ask.

That evening she dressed in a very simple smoke gray and white gown of Emily’s, judiciously let out by Emily’s maid. It was not nearly as flattering on Charlotte with her darker complexion and mahogany hair as it had been on Emily’s apple-blossom fairness, but it had the one merit Charlotte was looking for now: it was very easy to get in and out of. She dressed her hair with the minimum of fuss, so it could be squashed flat under a wig without removing a hundred pins first. The result did not make her look her most attractive, but it could not be helped. Jack was tactful enough to refrain from commenting, although his face registered slight surprise, quickly replaced by a smile and a wink.

They arrived at Hanover Close a few minutes late, as was the acceptable thing to do, and were handed down from the carriage onto the icy pavement. Charlotte took Jack’s arm up the steps and into the lighted hall. As the door was closed behind them she felt a moment’s panic, then forced herself to think of Pitt, and said rather too effusively, “Good evening, Mrs. York, how kind of you to invite us.”

“Good evening, Miss Barnaby,” Loretta replied with far less enthusiasm. “I hope you are well? Our city winter is not disagreeing with you?”

Only just in time Charlotte remembered that she was going to be taken ill after dinner. She chose her words carefully. “I do find it—a trifle different. There is a very little pleasure walking in the streets here, and the snow seems to get dirty so quickly.”

Loretta’s eyebrows rose in faint surprise. “Indeed? I have never considered walking.”

“It is very good for the health.” Charlotte managed to sound agreeable without actually smiling.

In the withdrawing room Veronica was standing by the hearth in a very fine gown of black and white, looking considerably more composed than the last time they had met. She welcomed Charlotte with what seemed like genuine pleasure, especially when she saw her very indifferent gray gown.

The usual greetings followed and Charlotte was relieved to see that everyone the plan required was present: Harriet looking pale; Aunt Adeline in an unfortunate dress of vivid brown, which made her eyes the more startling; Loretta in salmon pink, her bodice stitched with pearls at once individual and utterly feminine. But far more important, the men were there: Julian Danver, smiling with candid directness; Garrard Danver, elegant, more elusive than his son, quick of wit, and she thought perhaps more original. Piers York was there as well, welcoming her with the sincerity that is a mixture of long practice and genuine awareness of privilege and its responsibilities. Good manners were as natural to him as rising early, or eating all the food on his plate. He had been taught them in the nursery and now they were ineradicable.

With Jack’s help, Charlotte devoted her mind to the usual trivial conversation that preceded dinner. Dinner itself was quite ordinary; the talk meandered from one unimportant topic to another. It was an uneven party in that there were four unmarried women present and only three unmarried men, one of them being Garrard Danver, who could have no possible romantic interest in his daughter or his sister, and presumably not in Veronica, who was shortly to become his daughter-in-law. Since he was twenty-five years Charlotte’s senior, she would have been most unlikely to have been paired with him in anyone’s mind, even supposing he had any desire to remarry. And of course Jack was assumed to be her first cousin and therefore unsuitable.

Nevertheless Loretta was a skilled hostess. Tonight she seemed to be using all her very considerable charm and poise to strike a perfect balance between dominating the company and making everyone else feel at their best. If she tried a little harder than usual, or if her hand gripped the stem of her wineglass so her knuckles were momentarily bloodless, perhaps it was her daughter-in-law who had given her very real cause for anxiety. She could not be blamed if she was nervous in case, even at this point, Veronica should show some trace of the hysteria, the willfulness, or the latent jealousy so ugly to any man, and which had come through her fragile exterior so very lately in the imagined privacy of her bedroom.

Since it was such a small company and the hour was a little later than usual for the end of dinner, Jack rather boldly suggested that they not separate but all retire to the withdrawing room together. He did not even glance at Charlotte: he was playing his part to perfection.

It was time Charlotte took her cue. Everyone was rising to leave, the table was littered with half empty dishes and crumpled napkins. The gas in the chandeliers was hissing gently and the flowers underneath them looked waxy white, artificial; they must have come from the conservatory.

Charlotte felt ridiculous now that the time had come. There had to be a better way. It would never work—they would see right through her, and there would be nothing for Jack to do except say she was mad. Nursing the sick aunt had turned her wits!

“Miss Barnaby, are you all right?” It was Julian Danver’s voice coming to her out of a mist.

“I—I beg your pardon?” she stammered.

“Elisabeth, are you ill?” Veronica came back to her, her face full of concern.

Charlotte wanted to laugh—she had created the desired effect without even trying. She heard her own voice answering automatically. “I do feel a little faint. If I might go upstairs for half an hour, I’m sure I shall recover. I just need to rest for a short while. It’s really nothing.”

“Are you sure? Shall I come with you?” Veronica offered.

“No, please—I should feel most guilty dragging you from your party. Perhaps your maid ...” Was she being too obvious? They were all staring at her—perhaps the whole charade was perfectly transparent. Did anybody really behave like this?

“Of course,” Veronica agreed and the words were such a relief Charlotte could feel the blood rush back into her face and she felt like laughing. They would put her down as a hysteric! For goodness sake, she must get out of the room and upstairs.

“I’ll call Amelia,” Veronica said quickly, going to the bell. “If you are quite sure?”

“Oh yes!” Charlotte said too loudly. “Quite!”

Five minutes later Charlotte was upstairs in Emily’s small, cold attic bedroom. She looked at Emily, and pulling a face, she slipped out of the gray and white dress. Emily presented her with the glowing dress of almost violent cerise.

“Oh Lord!” Charlotte closed her eyes.

“Come on,” Emily urged. “Get into it. You’ve already made up your mind; don’t waver now.”

Charlotte stepped into it and pulled it up. “Cerise must be a remarkable woman to look ravishing in this! Fasten me up. Come on, I’ve only ten minutes to get to the conservatory. Where’s the wig?”

Emily finished the fastening and passed her the black wig. It took them several minutes to get it right and to apply the rouge Charlotte had brought. Emily stood back and looked at her critically.

“You know that’s not bad,” she said with considerable surprise. “In fact, you look quite dashing, in a garish sort of way.”

“Thank you,” Charlotte said sarcastically, but her hands were shaking and her voice was not quite level.

Emily was watching her closely. She did not ask if Charlotte still wanted to go on with it.

“Right,” Charlotte said more firmly. “See if the passage is clear. I’d hate to meet the parlormaid on the stairs.”

Emily opened the door and looked out, took half a dozen steps—Charlotte could hear her feet on the boards—then came back again. “Come on! Quick. You can get down these stairs, and if there’s anyone coming we’ll duck into Veronica’s room.”

They scuttled along the corridor, down the stairs, and onto the main landing; then Emily stopped sharply and held up her finger in warning. Charlotte froze.

“Amelia?” It was a man’s voice. “Amelia? I thought you were looking after Miss Barnaby?”

Emily started down again. “Yes I am. I’ve come to get her a tisane.”

“ ’Aven’t you got any upstairs?”

“Not peppermint. Would you get me some? I’ll stay here in case she calls—I don’t think she’s well at all. Please, Albert.”

Standing above her, at the head of the stairs, Charlotte could hear the smile in her voice and picture the soft look. She was not in the least surprised when Albert agreed without a murmur, and the next moment Emily was back at the bannister again, whispering fiercely to her to hurry.

Charlotte came down so rapidly she almost fell on the last step. She catapulted across the open hallway and through the conservatory door into the blessed dimness of the sparse, yellow night-lights. Her heart was beating like a trip-hammer, she felt as if her whole body must be shaking, and no effort could fill her lungs with enough air.

She stood under the ornamental palm at the far end of the pathway, so she could see the door to the hall. If anyone came she could step forward and the light would catch primarily her shoulder and skirt, showing that burning color; her face would remain in the shadow of the overhanging frond.

But would anyone come? Perhaps Cerise never made assignations by letter. Or maybe her writing or the words she used were utterly different from what Charlotte had written, and the recipients would recognize that instantly. She had given Julian Danver the earliest time. If he were going to come he should be here any moment. In fact, he was late. How long had she been here?

She could hear the faintest sound of footsteps somewhere in the house—probably Albert in the hall. They were not coming this way. Closer to her there was a steady dripping of moisture from one leaf to another, and finally onto the damp earth beneath. The smell of vegetation was overpowering.

She tried to occupy her mind and failed utterly. Every train of thought dissolved into chaos, driven out by the tension that was tightening like the slow turning of a ratchet. Her hands were sticky and felt like pins and needles. Was she going to stand here in the dark under a potted palm half the night?

The whisper startled her so violently it could have been at her shoulder—she did not even know what the words had been.

He was standing just inside the doorway, eyes wide, the yellow light making his cheeks look unnaturally haggard and chiseling his nose more finely.

Charlotte stepped forward just enough to present a clear silhouette against the green, and for the light to catch the searing pink dress.

He was surprised when he saw the color, the smoothness of her bare shoulder and the slender curve of her neck, the black wig. For an instant the pain in him was totally naked. It was too late to call it back—Garrard Danver had loved Cerise. The storm of it had left the wrack in his face. In spite of himself, he came towards her.

She had no idea what to do—conspiracy, infatuation she had been half prepared for, but not such pain.

Unconsciously she backed towards the palm, and the light above her fell on her bosom.

Garrard stopped. His eyes were hollow, he was like a caricature, ugly and beautiful; even in his despair there was self-knowledge, a shaft of irony.

Then she understood. Of course: everyone had said Cerise was thin, nearly flat-chested, and Charlotte was rather well endowed. Even with a tight dress and unflattering camisole she still could not pass for the elegant leanness Cerise was said to have.

“Who are you?” he said very quietly.

“Who did you think I was, when you came?” She had thought of that question long before.

His smile was ghastly. “I had no idea. I never imagined you were whom you pretend to be.”

“Then why did you come?” It was a challenge.

“To see why you wanted me, of course! If you’ve blackmail in mind, you’re a fool! You’re risking your life for a few pounds.”

“I don’t want money!” she said sharply. “I want—” She stopped. He was close to her now, so close she could have lifted her hand and touched his cheek. But she was still in so deep a shadow that he had not recognized her. There was someone else in the doorway, someone motionless with horror, and yet with such a passion of jealousy in her face she might truly have seen hell in the quietly dripping leaves and the two figures standing almost touching each other, and that harsh, incandescent, outrageous dress.

Loretta York. Garrard turned very slowly and saw her. He did not look embarrassed, as Charlotte had expected, nor ashamed. The wretchedness in his face was fear—and worse than that, a kind of revulsion.

Water slid off the leaves and landed on the lily petals with a faint plink. All three of them stood motionless.

At last Loretta gave a little shudder and turned on her heel and went out.

Garrard looked at Charlotte, or rather at the gloom where she stood. His voice was hoarse, he had to make two attempts at speaking.

“Wha—what do you want?”

“Nothing. Leave. Go back to the party,” she hissed.

He hesitated, peering at her, unsure whether to believe her or not, and she retreated, almost backing into the palm.

“Go back to the party!” she whispered fiercely. “Go back!”

His relief was flickering, but he did not wait: all he wanted was to escape. A moment later she stood alone in the conservatory. She tiptoed to the door and looked out. There was no one in the hall, not even Emily. Should she risk running upstairs now, or wait until Emily gave her the signal? Perhaps this emptiness was the signal? If Albert came back it would be too late.

She was at the foot of the stairs without having made a conscious decision. It was too late to go back. She picked up the magenta taffeta of her skirt and ran up as fast as she could. Please heaven there would be no one on the landing, nor anyone on the stairs leading to the servants quarters.

She got to the top, breathless, her heart pounding. The narrow passage was deserted, nothing but doors on either side. Which one was Emily’s? Hellfire! She had completely forgotten! Panic rose inside her. If anyone came she would have to dive for the nearest room and hope it was empty.

There were footsteps on the stairs now! She scuttled to the door, turned the handle, and pushed it. She was only just inside when the footsteps reached the top. She waited. If they came in here there was nothing at all she could do. Frantically she looked around for something to hit them with. She could not be hauled downstairs like a common housebreaker!

“Charlotte! Charlotte, where are you?”

Relief nearly made her sick. She felt heat and icy cold rush over her, prickling on her skin. She pulled the door open with shaking hands.

“I’m here!”

Ten minutes later she was downstairs in the withdrawing room again, her hair a trifle disheveled; that was easily explained by saying that she had been lying down, and yes thank you, she was quite recovered now. She remained fairly quiet, not wanting to risk the amazing luck she had had so far. Her hands still trembled a little and her mind was crowded with anything but stupid conversation.

The party broke up early, as though by common consent. By quarter to eleven Charlotte was sitting beside Jack in the carriage, telling him about Garrard and Loretta in the conservatory, and the expressions she had seen in their faces.

Then she told him what she proposed to do next.

Ballarat agreed to see her with reluctance.

“My dear Mrs. Pitt, I am sorry you have been caused such distress, believe me,” he protested. “But there is really nothing I can do for you.” He rocked backwards and forwards on the soles of his feet and stood again in front of the fire. “I wish you wouldn’t harrow yourself in this way! Why don’t you go and stay with your family until, er ...” He stopped, realizing he had painted himself into a corner.

“Until they hang my husband,” she finished for him flatly.

He was acutely uncomfortable. “My dear lady, that is quite—”

She stared at him, and he had the grace to blush. But she had not come to antagonize him, and giving free rein to her feelings was self-indulgent and stupid. “I’m sorry,” she apologized with difficulty, swallowing her loathing of him because his fear was so much greater than his loyalty. “I came to tell you I have discovered something which I felt I must tell you immediately.” She ignored his exasperated expression and went on. “The woman in pink who was killed in Seven Dials was not the same woman in cerise whom Dulcie saw in the York house and Miss Adeline Danver saw on the landing in the Danver house. That woman is still alive, and is the witness that Thomas was looking for.”

A twinge of pity touched his face and vanished again. “Witness to what, Mrs. Pitt?” he asked with an effort at patience. “And even if we could find this mysterious woman—if she exists—it would hardly help Pitt. The evidence is still there that he killed the woman in Seven Dials, whoever she was.” He sounded eminently reasonable, certain of his lightness.

“Yes it is!” Charlotte’s voice was rising and there was a sharp note of panic in it in spite of herself. “Someone dressed that woman in a pink dress and killed her to protect the real Cerise, and to get rid of Thomas at the same time. Don’t you see?” she asked, her tone scathing with sarcasm. “Or do you imagine Thomas pushed the maid out of the window as well? And presumably killed Robert York too—God knows why.”

Ballarat put his hands up ineffectually, as if he would pat her, then saw the passion in her eyes and backed away instead. “My dear lady, you are overwrought. It’s very understandable, in your circumstances, and believe me, I have the deepest pity.” He drew breath again and steadied himself. Reason must be paramount. “Robert York was killed by a burglar, and the maid fell quite accidentally.” He nodded. “It does happen sometimes, unfortunately. Extremely sad, but not in the least criminal. And really, my dear lady, Miss Adeline Danver is quite elderly, and I believe not the most reliable witness.”

Charlotte stared at him in disbelief at first, and then with sickening comprehension. Either he was frightened of all the unpleasantness, the anger, the blame if it were true and there really was treason in the Foreign Office—or else he was part of it! She looked at his rounded jowls, his blustery complexion, his lidless brown eyes, round as buttons. She could not believe he was a brilliant enough actor to seem so much the ambitious man tricked and caught out of his depth. For a second that passed like a ripple of wind over the surface of a pond, she was sorry for him; then she remembered Pitt’s bruised face and the fear she had seen in his eyes.

“You are going to feel very foolish when this is all over,” she said icily. “I had thought you had more love for your country than to allow treason to flourish merely because up-rooting it might prove distasteful, and embarrass certain people whose favor you would like to keep.”

Ballarat’s face mottled purple as a turkey cock, and he took a step forward. “You insult me, madam!” he said furiously.

“I’m glad!” She glared at him with scorching contempt, cutting off his words. “I had feared I merely spoke the truth; prove the wrong and no one will be happier than I. In the meantime I believe what I see. Good day, Mr. Ballarat.” She walked out without looking back, leaving the door open behind her. Let him come after her and close it himself.

She knew what she must do. Ballarat had left her no choice. Had he promised to investigate she would have left it, but now there was nothing else she could think of. There was a ruthlessness in it of which she would not have thought herself capable, but it was shocking to her how easily it came, because she was fighting to protect those she loved more than herself, whose pain she could not bear as she might have her own. Her response was primal and nothing to do with the mind.

Charlotte had understood that look in Loretta’s face in the doorway of the conservatory. She was in love with Garrard Danver—totally, obsessively in love, which was not hard to believe. He had a grace, an individuality that was unusual. And he would be a challenge to most women; there was something elusive in him, the suggestion of great passion beneath his rather brittle shell and self-protective humor, if only one could find the secret of touching the heart or the soul inside. To lovely Loretta, bored with the charming but controlled Piers, the hint of something much wilder might be irresistible.

And obviously Garrard had loved only Cerise. All that hunger and flood of emotion, all Loretta dreamt of awakening herself, had been plain in his face when for a moment the sight of Charlotte outlined in the half light, and the flame of the dress, had stirred an anguished memory.

She must get them all together and press and press until someone broke. Garrard was the weakest link. He was afraid—she had seen that in his face too—and repelled by Loretta’s hunger for him. Charlotte could remember when a man had once felt such a lust for her and Caroline had blindly thought him suitable as a husband. Charlotte had been nearly hysterical when left alone with him briefly. It had seemed ridiculous later; Caroline had been angry, not understanding. It was years ago now and the incident had vanished from her mind, until she saw Garrard’s face in the lamplight and the peculiar mixture of horror, embarrassment, and revulsion brought it back with such precision that it made her skin crawl.

Garrard was the one she must press with all the force she had.

But there was no way within her power to make the Yorks invite the Danvers, the Ashersons, and herself, and no one else. They might not ever do it—certainly not within the few remaining days before Pitt would be arraigned and brought to trial. To have such a gathering in Emily’s house would be inexplicable, and Jack had no facilities either, although Emily would willingly have financed the event. No, the answer lay with Aunt Vespasia, and surely she would be willing.

Accordingly Charlotte abandoned the public omnibus and recklessly took a hansom cab to Aunt Vespasia’s house. Having paid the cabbie and released him, she climbed the shallow steps up to the front door and rang the bell. She had been here many times before and the maid showed not the slightest surprise at seeing her.

Vespasia received her in the boudoir, which was full of light and space, sparsely furnished in cream and gold with touches of deep green. A great green fern in a jardinière stood against one wall. Only the steeply banked fire saved it from chill.

Vespasia herself looked more fragile but she still had the perfect bones of the amazing beauty she had been forty, even thirty years ago. She had aquiline features, heavy-lidded eyes under arched brows, and coiled hair like old silver. She was dressed in dark lavender, with a high fichu of Brussels lace at her throat.

“How are you?” Charlotte asked immediately, and it was not merely good manners, or the need for help. There was no one outside her family, and few within it, she cared for as much as she did for Aunt Vespasia.

Vespasia smiled. “Quite recovered—and probably far better than you, my dear,” she said frankly. “You look pale, and considerably fatigued. Sit down and tell me how you are progressing. What may I do to help?” She looked beyond Charlotte to the maid, who hovered in the doorway. “Tea please, Jennet, and cucumber sandwiches and some cakes— something with whipped cream and sugar icing, if you please.”

“Yes m’lady.” And Jennet disappeared, closing the door softly.

“Well?” Vespasia demanded.

When Charlotte left, her plans were perfected down to the finest detail. She felt immensely better for the food, and realized she had not been eating as she should—either she’d forgotten or she had no heart for it. Aunt Vespasia’s determination eased a great deal of the despair tightening inside her. She had very gently encouraged Charlotte to let go of the self-control which had kept her dry-eyed and rigid for so many days. Charlotte wept fiercely, with abandon. Naming all her fears, rather than forcing them down inside her like black devils, had robbed them of some of their horror; now that she had spoken them aloud and shared them, they no longer seemed unconquerable.

When Aunt Vespasia sent a handwritten letter two days later to say that the dinner was arranged and the invitations accepted, it was time to prepare Jack for the last and best gamble of all. Emily knew of it also, in as much detail as Charlotte dared tell her in a rather oddly coded letter, delivered by Gracie by omnibus.

Jack was far more nervous than Charlotte had expected when he collected her at quarter to seven on the evening of the dinner. But as soon as she was settled in the carriage and had a chance to weigh her thoughts, she realized that this was her own blindness. Just because he had done all he could right from the beginning, never questioning Pitt’s innocence or Emily’s harebrained plan to go to the Yorks’, did not mean he had no emotion under his rather casual exterior. After all, he was born and bred in a society where manner was all; one very quickly became out of fashion if one either loved or offended, and real emotions were apt to embarrass, which was even worse. They could disturb the peace of mind, unsettle, spoil the pleasure, and that was inexcusable. If Jack were worth anything, then of course he was nervous. He probably had a sick fluttering in his stomach just as she did, and a racing heart, and hands that were clammy no matter how often he wiped them.

They did not speak on the journey. They had made all the plans they could, and there was no time for trivia. It was bitterly cold, a rare winter night when the ice was crackling hard on the road and in the frozen gutters. The keen wind off the sea had blown the fog clear, and even over the city the smoke did not obscure the stars, which seemed to hang low as if someone had exploded a chandelier across the sky.

Vespasia had chosen Charlotte’s gown for the evening, and had obtained it for her, disregarding her protests. It was of deep ivory cream satin, touched here and there with gold, the bodice scattered with pearls. It was quite the most flattering garment she had ever worn, low-cut and with a beautiful bustle. Even Jack, who had wined and dined with the great beauties of the age, was startled and impressed.

They were shown into Vespasia’s withdrawing room and found her seated by the fire on a high-backed chair as if she were a queen receiving court. She wore gun-metal gray with a choker of diamonds and pearls, and her hair above her arched brows was coiled like a wrought silver crown.

Jack bowed and Charlotte, without thinking, dropped a curtsy.

Aunt Vespasia smiled; there was deep conspiracy in it. The situation was desperate, but there was also exhilaration going into battle.

“England expects that every man will do his duty,” Aunt Vespasia whispered. “I believe our guests are about to arrive.”

The first to come were Felix and Sonia Asherson, looking agreeably surprised to be there. Vespasia Cumming-Gould was something of a legend, even to their generation, and they knew of no reason why they should be among the very few invited to her house. What had seemed in Sonia to be an unbearably placid complacency, in this light appeared merely the rather regular cast of her features and an expression of politeness.

Felix appeared frankly interested. He could be extraordinarily charming when he wished; he knew how to flatter without words, and his infrequent smile was devastating.

Aunt Vespasia was nearly eighty. As a child she had seen the celebrations after the victory of Waterloo; she remembered the Hundred Days and the fall of Napoleon. She had danced with the Duke of Wellington when he was prime minister. She had known the heroes, the victims, and the fools of the Crimea, the empire builders, statesmen, charlatans, artists, and wits of the greatest century in the history of England. She was happy to play with Felix Asherson and kept the smile on her own lips flawlessly unreadable.

The Danvers were shown in ten minutes later. Julian seemed perfectly at ease; he felt no compulsion to show off or to push himself into the conversation. Charlotte decided Veronica might well be fortunate.

Garrard, on the contrary, was quick to speak, his face drawn, his hands moving nervously as though stillness were an unbearable strain. Charlotte instinctively scented the kill, and hating herself for it made no difference at all to her intentions. The choice lay between Garrard Danver and Pitt. It was no choice at all.

Harriet Danver was also far from comfortable. She looked more fragile than she had on previous occasions, although it was possible that was due to her wearing a shade of smoky lavender which echoed the shadows in her pale skin and made her eyes look even larger. Either she was very much in love and finding the pain unendurable, or there was some other knowledge or fear preying on her mind.

Aunt Adeline was dressed in topaz and gold, which suited her very well. There was a slight flush on her cheeks, which robbed them of their usual sallowness. It was several minutes before Charlotte realized Adeline felt vastly complimented to be invited to Aunt Vespasia’s home, and the occasion had excited her greatly. Charlotte felt a sharp spear-thrust of conscience. She would dearly like to have abandoned this, but it was not possible.

Last to come were the Yorks, Veronica ethereal and magnificent in black and silver, sweeping in with her head high and color in her cheeks. She checked herself almost before she was through the door at the sight of Charlotte standing close to Julian Danver. His admiration for her was extremely obvious; and it was equally obvious, just for an instant, that Veronica had never before appreciated what a potential rival Charlotte might be. Little Miss Barnaby from the country was a considerable beauty, when she chose! Veronica’s greeting had lost several degrees of warmth by the time they met in the center of the floor.

For once Loretta also looked less sure of herself; her aplomb was a shadow of her old certainty. As always, she was meticulously groomed, exquisitely feminine in golden peach, but the fluidity had gone, the wound Charlotte had seen in the conservatory was still raw. She did not look at Garrard Danver. Piers York was grave, as if aware of tragedy without knowing its nature or direction; either that, or he chose to ignore it. His face lit when he saw Vespasia, and Charlotte realized with surprise that they had known each other for years.

All the customary greetings were made, petty courtesies exchanged, but already the undercurrents had begun to pull, to tear and distort.

For half an hour they talked of the weather, the theater, figures of fashion and politics. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves except Garrard and Loretta. If Piers had any reservations he was too practiced to reveal them.

Charlotte found her attention wandering. She must not begin yet; she would wait until dinner. Begin too early and she could dissipate the very tension she was seeking to build. They must all be seated, facing each other, with no escape except the violent act of physically leaving a hostess’s presence. Only illness could excuse that.

The moments dragged by, the inane conversation fell word by word as she watched their faces and planned. Felix was enjoying himself, even with Harriet, and gradually she lost her pallor and joined in. Sonia was swapping gossip with Loretta. Veronica was flirting with Julian, looking in his eyes, ignoring Charlotte. Vespasia smiled and spoke to each of them in turn, drawing out small, self-revealing comments, and now and again her eye caught Charlotte’s with the faintest nod.

At last dinner was announced and they went in, two by two, taking the places Vespasia had set for them with meticulous forethought: Harriet next to Felix Asherson and opposite Jack, so he could see any expression in their faces; Julian next to Charlotte; and most important, Loretta and Garrard next to each other, under the chandelier, so no flicker of muscle, no shadow in their eyes could escape Charlotte directly opposite.

Soup was served, lobster bisque, and conversation flagged. Next came the fish, deviled whitebait, then the entree of quenelle of rabbit. When they were just beginning the removes of quarter of lamb, Aunt Vespasia regarded Julian Danver with an agreeable smile. “I understand you are quite a rising star in the Foreign Office, Mr. Danver,” she said. “A most responsible situation, not without its dangers.”

He looked surprised. “Danger, Lady Cumming-Gould? I assure you, I seldom leave the extremely comfortable and eminently safe rooms of the Foreign Office itself.” He smiled at Veronica quickly, then back again at Vespasia. “And even if I were posted abroad to some embassy, I would insist on it being in Europe.”

“Indeed?” Her silver eyebrows rose. “In what country’s affairs do you specialize?”

“In the affairs of Germany, and its interests in Africa.”

“In Africa?” she asked. “I believe the kaiser has some imperial designs there, which may inevitably conflict with ours. You must be involved in delicate negotiations.”

His smile remained. All the other conversation had stopped and faces were turned towards him.

“Of course,” he agreed.

The corners of Vespasia’s mouth curled upwards very slighdy. “And do you never fear betrayal, or even some slight, quite honest mistake that could hand the advantage to your opponents—your nation’s opponents?”

He opened his mouth to reply, dismissing her fears; suddenly the words died and a shadow touched his face. Then he banished it.

“One has to be careful, of course, but one doesn’t speak of state matters outside the Foreign Office itself.”

“And of course you know exactly whom to trust.” Charlotte made it more of a statement than a question. “I imagine treason begins little by little. First a small confidence elicited, perhaps by someone in love.” She glanced at Harriet and then back at Felix. “Personal loyalties can make such a mess of morality,” she said quietly, aware of what she herself was doing even at this moment, aware of friendship, the unwritten laws of hospitality—and of love that overrode them all. It was not that she thought she was right, or that love excused it, simply that it was elemental, as an animal protects its own.

There were spots of color in Felix’s pale cheeks. Sonia had stopped eating, and she clutched her fork in a white hand whose knuckles shone. Perhaps she was not as complacent as she seemed after all.

“I think you are—romanticizing, Miss Barnaby,” Felix said awkwardly.

Charlotte looked at him innocently. “Do you not believe in the strength of love to overcome judgment, Mr. Asherson, even for a moment?”

“I. . .” He was caught. He smiled to cover his dilemma. “You press me to be ungallant, Miss Barnaby. Shall I say I know no woman, however charming, who would ask the questions I was not free to answer?”

For a moment Charlotte was beaten. But then if it were so easy, it would not have eluded her thus far.

“You don’t know the mysterious woman in cerise?” The words were out before she had time to judge them. She saw Jack’s eyes widen and Aunt Vespasia let her fork fall onto her place with a little click. Veronica held her breath, staring at Charlotte as if she had cast aside a mask to reveal a reptile’s form. Garrard’s face was bloodless, his skin yellow-gray.

It was Loretta who broke the silence, her voice grating in the stillness. “Really, Miss Barnaby, you have a taste for the melodramatic which is unfortunate at best. I think you would be well advised to reconsider your reading matter.” There was only the slightest quiver in her words, barely a tremble. Of course she did not know Charlotte had seen her face in the conservatory doorway. “You should not read novels of the trashier sort,” she continued. “They coarsen the taste.”

“I think she has been reading the newspapers,” Jack said hastily.

“Certainly not!” Charlotte lied with a touch of irony. “I heard it from a running patterer! It was quite unavoidable; he was crying it out all over the street. Apparently this marvelously beautiful woman led some poor diplomat into revealing secrets, and then betrayed him. She was a spy.”

“Rubbish!” Felix said loudly. He stared straight at Charlotte, avoiding even the slightest glance at Harriet or her father. He might have wavered had he looked at Garrard—his face was so ghastly he seemed to be suffering some physical pain. “Rubbish!” Felix said again. “My dear Miss Barnaby, running patterers make their living by entertaining the masses. They invent half of it, you know.”

For a moment the tension eased. Charlotte could feel it slipping away. She must not lose it: the murderer was here at this shining dinner table with its silver and crystal and white flowers.

“But not out of nothing!” she argued. “People do fall passionately in love—so deeply they would forfeit everything, betray all the old loyalties.” She looked round at their faces as if she were appealing to them. Veronica was numb, her dark eyes enormous, absorbed with some inner horror—or was it fear at last? Was she after all the real Cerise, and was that why Garrard had known Charlotte was an imposter? He had just left Veronica in the withdrawing room. He said he came only because he feared blackmail, but if that were so, why did he not marry her himself? Or had she tired of him and chosen his son instead? Perhaps Julian was her mistake, her weakness—she had loved in return. Or was Julian simply a way into a more powerful position? He was destined for higher things than his father, perhaps even a cabinet position.

Did Loretta know that, or had she guessed? Her face was ashen, but it was Garrard she stared at, not Veronica. Piers was confused; he did not understand the meaning of what had been said, but he knew the fear and the passion that was in the air. He looked like a soldier readying himself to face enemy fire.

Harriet looked wretched, embarrassed, and Sonia was pale with defeat.

Aunt Adeline spoke. “Miss Barnaby,” she said quietly. “I am sure such things do happen, from time to time. If we are capable of great feeling of any sort, there is always the chance it may lead to tragedy. But does it serve any good end that we should delve into it? Have we a right to know other people’s griefs?”

Charlotte felt the blood hot in her cheeks. She liked Adeline and she doubted she would ever be forgiven this total hypocrisy and deceit. “Not tragedy,” she agreed a little less steadily. “Not if it concerns no one else. But treason concerns us all. It is our country, our people, who are betrayed.”

Harriet put her hands up to her face, white with horror.

“There was no treason!” Felix shouted. “Good God, any man can fall in love unwisely!”

Harriet drew her breath in a gasp of anguish so sharp it was audible to all of them.

Felix swung round. “Harriet—that’s all! I swear, I never betrayed anything!”

Garrard looked as if he had been struck. Veronica gaped at Felix, her mouth open, her eyes like sockets in her head.

“Felix, you—and Cerise?” Loretta started to laugh, at first a gurgle in her throat, then it rose higher till it was out of control, on the brink of hysteria. “You—and Cerise! Do you hear that, Garrard? Do you?”

Garrard shot to his feet, upsetting wine and water over the cloth.

“No!” he cried desperately. “It’s not true! For God’s sake, stop. Stop!”

Felix looked at him, appalled. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, staring past his wife to Harriet. “I’m sorry, Harriet. God knows I tried!”

“What?” Julian demanded. “What the hell are you all talking about? Felix! Did you have an affair with this woman—this Cerise?”

Felix tried to laugh and it died in his throat. “No! No I didn’t—of_course I didn’t.” There was such bitter humor in his voice that he could only be speaking the truth. “No. I was trying to protect Garrard, for Harriet’s sake. Isn’t that obvious? Sonia—I’m sorry.”

No one bothered to ask why. The answer was only too obvious in Harriet’s face, and indeed in his own. That domestic tragedy was laid bare; there was no mystery left to uncover.

“Father?” Julian turned to Garrard. Now realization was coming to him, and a dawning of pain. “If you did have an affair with this woman, what does it matter? Unless . . . you killed her.”

“No!” The cry came from Garrard like the howl of a mortally wounded animal. “I loved”—his voice dropped—“Cerise.” He glanced at Loretta with a hatred stripped of all its veneer of irony, weariness, disillusion. “God—damn—you!” The words were choked from him. There were no tears on his face, he was past weeping, but his pain pulsated through the brilliant lights and the glittering reflections.

There was thick silence. For a long, hot moment no one understood. Then at last Julian grasped the sword. “You betrayed the department,” he said very slowly. “You told Cerise about the Anglo-German partition of Africa. That’s what Felix was covering up for you! Because of Harriet!”

Garrard sat down very slowly, suddenly stiff. “No.” His voice had lost its fire of hate, everything had gone out of him. “Felix didn’t know I took the papers, only that I loved Cerise. But the secrets had nothing to do with Cerise.” He looked up again at Loretta, and all the passion of hate flooded back. “I took them for her!” he cried, his voice shaking. “She blackmailed me into it!”

“That’s ridiculous,” Piers said quietly. “For pity’s sake, man, don’t make it worse than it has to be. What on earth would Loretta want with secrets like that? Anyway, as I understand it, the negotiations are going very well. Aren’t they?”

“Yes.” Julian’s brow furrowed. “Yes they are. No one has used your wretched information!”

“Well then.” Piers sat back, his eyes touched with sadness. Perhaps his dreams of Loretta had died a long time ago. “Your charge doesn’t make sense.”

Charlotte remembered Loretta’s face in the conservatory doorway and knew that in her was the consuming passion of desire and rejection that governed this tragic, violent story. “Yes it does,” she said aloud. “The information wasn’t taken to be used in negotiations—”

“Ha!” Julian exploded derisively. He had seen hope and he clung to it.

“Something much more powerful.” Charlotte cut across him. “Once you have paid blackmail, you have to go on paying; you have put yourself in your blackmailer’s power. That was what she wanted—power. To exercise whenever she wanted, power to destroy whomever she chose. Wasn’t that it, Mrs. York? He loved Cerise, not you. He didn’t love you, didn’t want you. You revolted him—and you never forgave him for that.” She met Loretta’s eyes and saw that she had drawn the ultimate pain, and a hate so terrible that Loretta would have murdered Charlotte if she could. In an instant, as their glances locked, they both knew it.

“Did you think that wretched woman in Seven Dials was Cerise?” Charlotte continued pitilessly. “Is that why you broke her neck? You wasted your effort. She wasn’t Cerise, she was just some poor maid who’d lost her character and fallen on hard times!”

“You murdered her!” Garrard accused Loretta, his voice high and harsh. “You thought it was Cerise so you broke her neck!”

“Be quiet!” Loretta was cornered, trapped, and she knew it. Her soul had been stripped naked in front of all the people round the table; her rejection had been exposed for them all to see and taste. And Garrard was lost forever, even the power to hurt him was gone. She did not know how to fight anymore.

Garrard had burned under her threat all these years, dreading the meetings with her, always afraid one day she would betray his weakness, ruin his reputation and strip him of his position, his career. Now it was gone anyway, and he took his revenge.

“You murdered her,” he repeated steadily. “You dressed that poor damn woman in that dress so you could blame that wretched policeman! How did you find the woman? Who was she? Some maid you’d dismissed, and still knew where to find?”

Loretta stared at him dumbly. It was the truth and it was painted on her face too clearly to be worth denying.

“And Dulcie?” he went on. “You pushed her out of the window. Why? What did she know—or see?”

“Don’t you know?” She started to laugh hysterically. “Oh dear, Garrard—don’t you know?” Tears streamed down her face, her voice getting wilder and higher every moment.

Jack stood up and moved towards her. “Asherson!” he said sharply.

In a daze Felix rose and came to help. Between them they half lifted her from her chair and took her from the room.

Vespasia stood also, stiffly, her face pale. “I am going to telephone the police. Superintendent Ballarat, I believe it is. And the home secretary.” She looked round the table at them. “I apologize for such an—an unfortunate dinner party, but you see, Thomas Pitt is a friend of mine. I cannot sit by and see him hanged for a murder he did not commit. Please excuse me.” Head high, back like a ramrod, she swept out of the room to exert all her influence, to call on old friendships and have Pitt released, now, tonight.

In the silence behind her no one moved.

But it was not over. There was still Cerise, the real Cerise. And who had murdered Robert York, and why? Had that also been Loretta? Charlotte believed not.

On shaking legs she rose too. “Ladies, I think we should retire. I cannot imagine anyone feels like eating anymore. I certainly don’t.”

Obediently they pushed back their chairs and straggled through to the withdrawing room. Adeline and Harriet went together, leaning a little on each other, as though physical proximity could give them strength. Sonia Asherson hugged her hurt to herself, tight-lipped.

Lastly Charlotte followed at Veronica’s elbow. In the hallway she drew her aside into the library. Veronica looked round, startled, as though the book-lined shelves unnerved her.

Charlotte stood against the door, blocking it.

“There’s still Cerise,” she said quietly. “The real Cerise. The woman Garrard loved. That’s you, isn’t it!”

“Me?” Veronica’s eyes widened. “Me! Oh God! How wrong you are! But why? Why do you care? Why have you done all this? Who are you?”

“Charlotte Pitt.”

“Charlotte—Pitt? You mean—you mean that policeman is your—”

“My husband. And I’m not going to let him hang for murdering that woman.”

“He won’t,” Veronica said harshly. “Loretta did it. We all heard her say so. You don’t have to worry.”

“It isn’t finished.” Charlotte turned the key in the lock. “There’s still the real Cerise, and whoever murdered your husband. I don’t think that was Loretta. I think it was you— and Loretta knew it. She protected you because of her own blackmailing of Garrard, even though you killed her son. That’s why you hated each other, and yet neither of you could afford to betray the other!”

“How—I ...” Veronica shook her head slowly, incredulous.

“There’s no purpose in denying it.” Charlotte could not afford pity now. This was Cerise; she might not be a spy after all, but she was a ruthless, passionate woman, and a murderess. “Was it to marry Julian? Did you get tired of Robert and murder him, so you could marry Julian?”

“No!” Veronica was so ashen Charlotte was half afraid she was going to faint. And yet she was Cerise—Cerise with the flair, the panache, the courage.

“I’m sorry, but I cannot believe you.”

“I am not Cerise!” Veronica put her hands over her face and turned away, crumpling in a heap onto the sofa. “Oh God! I suppose I’d better tell you the truth. It isn’t what you think at all!”

Charlotte sat carefully on the edge of a chair, waiting.

“I loved Robert. You’ll never believe how much, not now. But when we were married, I thought I had everything a woman could want. He was—he was so handsome, so charming and sensitive. He seemed to understand me. He was a companion, more than any other man I’d ever known. I—I loved him so much.” She closed her eyes, but the tears seeped through, and she gulped.

In spite of herself Charlotte was filled with pity. She knew what it was to love so much your whole world was filled with it. She, too, had suffered loneliness.

“Go on,” she said softly. “What about Cerise?”

Veronica made an intense effort, her body shaking, her voice husky as if the words cut her.

“Robert grew—cool towards me. I—” She swallowed and her voice sank to a whisper. “He became—uninterested in the—the marriage bed. At first I thought it was me, that I didn’t please him. I did everything I could, but nothing ...” She took a moment to control herself, then struggled on. “It was then I began to think there might be someone else.” She stopped, the pain of memory too strong for her.

Charlotte waited. Instinct made her want to rush forward, put her arms round Veronica and hold her, enfold the pain and ease it, touch her so she was not alone. But she knew she must not, not yet.

At last Veronica mastered herself. “I thought there must be another woman. I found a kerchief in the library. It was a bright cerise color, vivid, vibrant. I knew it wasn’t mine, or Loretta’s. Then a week later I found a ribbon, then a silk rose—all that dreadful color. Robert spent a lot of time away from home; I thought it had to do with his career. I could accept that; we all have to. Women, I mean.”

“You found her?” Charlotte said very quietly.

Veronica drew a deep breath and let it out with a shuddering sigh.

“Yes, I—I saw her, very briefly—right here in my own home. Just the back of her as she left through the front door. She was so—so graceful! I saw her a second time, at a theater I shouldn’t have been at. I only saw her at a distance across the balcony. When I got there she was gone.” She stopped again.

Charlotte believed the story in spite of herself; the wound was too real to be painted. The memory still hurt Veronica with a raw and twisting pain.

“Go on,” Charlotte prompted, this time more gently. “Did you find her?”

“I found one of her stockings.” Veronica’s voice was thick with the agony of reliving it. “In Robert’s bedroom. It was so ... I wept all that night. I thought I should never feel worse in my life.” She gave a little choking sound, half laugh, half sob. “That’s what I thought then! Until the night I knew Cerise was in the house. Something woke me. It was after midnight and I heard a footstep on the landing. I got up and saw her come out of Robert’s bedroom and go downstairs. I followed her. She must have heard me and slipped into the library. I—” She stopped again; her voice died away, thick with tears.

“I went in too. I faced her,” she managed after a time. “She was—beautiful. I swear she was.” She turned and looked up at Charlotte, her face smudged, blurred with misery and defeat. “She was so . . . elegant. I faced her, accused her of having an affair with Robert. She started to laugh. She stood there in the library in the middle of the night and laughed at me as if she would never stop. I was so furious I picked up the bronze horse from the desk and threw it at her. It hit her on the side of the head and she fell. I stood still for a moment, then I went over to her, but she didn’t move. I waited a moment and still she lay there. I felt for her pulse, listened for her breath—nothing! She was dead. Then I looked at her . . . more closely.” Her face was ashen; Charlotte had never seen anyone look so exhausted. Her voice was so low it was barely audible. “I touched her hair—and it came away in my hand. It was a wig. It wasn’t till that moment that I realized who it was. It was Robert himself—dressed as a woman! Robert was Cerise!” She closed her eyes and pressed her hands to them. “That was why Loretta blackmailed Garrard. He was in love with Robert, and he knew all the time who he was. That’s why she protected me. She hated me for it, but she couldn’t bear to have the world know her beloved son was a transvestite.

“After I knew he was dead I went upstairs. I think I was too shocked then even to weep; that came later. I went to Loretta and told her, and she came down with me. I didn’t even think of lying then. We stood there in the study, she and I, and stared at Robert lying on the floor in that terrible dress, and the wig beside him. There was rouge on his face, and powder. He was beautiful, that was the most obscene thing about it!” Weeping overtook her, and without thinking this time Charlotte knelt beside her and put her arms round the thin, aching shoulders.

“And you and Loretta changed his clothes, dressed him in his own nightshirt and robe and destroyed the cerise dress and wig, and then broke the library window?” she concluded; she knew this was what must have taken place. “Where are the things that were supposed to be stolen?”

But Veronica was sobbing too deeply to tell her. Three years of fear and pain had broken at last, and she needed to weep till she had no strength left, no emotion.

Charlotte held her and waited. It hardly mattered where those few objects were. Probably in the attics. They had not been sold, that much Pitt had made sure of.

The rest of the house must be busy with private tragedies: Piers with Loretta and the police, poor man; whatever disillusion he had suffered in the years since the first bloom of his marriage, no loneliness of closed doors of the heart could have prepared him for this. Felix would be smarting from the newly opened wound of his love for Harriet. It was quite hopeless; divorce would ruin all of them and no happiness could lie that way; and now Sonia had been forced to see it, understand it, and know that others saw it also. She could no longer hide her pain behind pretended blindness. Or perhaps it had been real—maybe she had known nothing. And Aunt Adeline would grieve for them all.

Julian would be far too busy with his own family’s despair to disturb Charlotte and Veronica now. He would be only too grateful to leave ‘Miss Barnaby’ to comfort his fiancée in what he supposed was no more than shock.

Minutes went by, stretching in the silent room. Charlotte had no idea how long it was until Veronica finally exhausted herself and sat up, her face a travesty of its former loveliness.

Charlotte had only a meager handkerchief to offer.

“I suppose they will hang me,” Veronica said very quietly, her voice quite steady now. “I hope it is quick.”

To her amazement Charlotte answered immediately and without a quiver. “I don’t see why they should. I can’t think of any reason why they need to know about it. You only meant to hurt him; it was a hideous mischance that the blow hit his temple and killed him.”

Veronica stared. “Won’t you tell them?”

“No—no, I don’t think there’s any point. I used to think I was a very civilized person, but since Thomas has been in prison, and might have been hanged, I discover that I have a savagery in me that doesn’t think first when I must fight for those I love—love more than I can understand, or control. I don’t know if it’s right, but I think I know how you might have felt.”

“What about Julian? Won’t he—won’t he hate me anyway, because he thinks I’m Cerise, and that I drove Garrard to . . .”

“Then tell him the truth.”

Veronica looked down. She was too exhausted to weep anymore. “He’ll leave me anyway. I killed Robert, and lied for three years to hide it. I didn’t know about Loretta and Garrard, but I don’t suppose he would believe all of that.”

Charlotte took her hands. “If he leaves you then he doesn’t love you as you want to be loved, and you must learn to live without him. Perhaps in time there will be someone else. Losing Robert was not any fault of yours. Nothing was lacking in your love; no woman could have held him. But Julian is different. If he really loves you, then he will still love you even when he knows. Believe me, we all have something to be forgiven. Love that expects perfection—no past with mistakes, pain, learning—is only hunger. No one grows to maturity without acts to be ashamed of; in accepting that, we love not only the strengths but also the weaknesses, and real bonds grow between us. Tell him. If he’s worth it, he’ll accept your past—if not immediately, then in a little while.”

For the first time Veronica lifted her chin. Her eyes widened, and there was a stillness in her; the violence inside calmed and her fear slipped away. “I will,” she said very softly. “I will tell him.”

There was a knock on the door—gentle, requesting permission.

Charlotte stood up and went to turn the key. “Come in.”

The door swung wide and Aunt Vespasia stood there with a tiny smile on her face. She stood aside. Behind her stood Emily, still in her maid’s dress but without the apron, and Jack with his arms round her. Beside them was Pitt, filthy, his face hollow, shadowed round the eyes and marked with bruises. But it was radiant with a smile of joy so intense he looked positively beautiful.