Cardington Crescent

8

PITT ATTENDED THE funeral, but at such a discreet distance that he was sure none of the family saw him. Afterwards he followed them back to Cardington Crescent and this time entered through the kitchen, taking Stripe with him. They had gone over and over the meager evidence, pursued the few threads of conversations overheard, impressions formed, hoping to surprise an unguarded revelation, but nothing had stayed in his mind sharper than the rest, nothing led him more clearly through the maze.

He left Stripe to question the servants one more time, on the chance that in repetition a fragment would be remembered, that some flash of new recollection would rise to the surface of the mind.

He wanted to see Charlotte. No absorption in this case, the Bloomsbury one, or any other, could drown out the loneliness in the evenings when he returned home, often close to midnight, and found only the night-light burning in the hall, the kitchen empty and tidy, everything put away but for the supper Gracie had carefully prepared and left on the table for him.

Every night he ate silently by the remains of the fire in the stove; then he took his boots off and tiptoed up the stairs, looking in first at the small, motionless forms of Jemima and Daniel in the nursery before going on to his own bed. He was tired enough to sleep within a few minutes, but he woke in the morning aware of an incompleteness, and sometimes he was actually physically cold.

In the mornings Gracie reported to him the events of the previous day that she considered important, but it was a shy, bare account—nothing like Charlotte’s, full of opinion, detail, and drama. He used to think her incessant talking through breakfast an intrusion, one of the penalties men invariably pay for marriage. But without it he found himself unable to concentrate on the newspaper and taking little pleasure in it.

Now he inquired of the footman where she was, and was shown into the overcrowded boudoir, close as a hothouse, and requested to wait. It was less than five minutes before Charlotte came in and, pushing the door closed sharply behind her, threw her arms round him and clung to him fiercely. She made no sound, but he could feel that she was weeping, a tired, slow letting go of tears.

Presently he kissed her—her hair, her brow, her cheek—then he passed her his only decent handkerchief, waiting while she blew her nose savagely, twice.

“How are the children?” she asked, swallowing and looking up at him. “Has Daniel cut that tooth yet? I thought he was getting a bit feverish—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course she is. I just forgot.”

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

“Yes. Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do you hesitate before you mention him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Table manners were quite as refined as those in the front dining room, and the discussion surely as stilted, but there was rather more of a domestic atmosphere. The food was complimented dish by dish as it was served, eaten, and cleared. The younger members’ manners were corrected gently but with a parental familiarity. There were giggles, blushes, sulks, just as Stripe could remember at his own home when he was growing up. Only the standards were strange and strict: elbows at sides, all green vegetables to be eaten or there was no pudding, no peas on the knife; speaking with the mouth full was reproved instantly, uninvited opinions quashed. For him to have mentioned death would have been gross bad taste, and murder unthinkable.

Involuntarily Stripe stole a look at Lettie, prim in white lace over her black, and found she was also looking at him. Even in the gaslight her eyes were just as blue. He looked away again quickly, and was too self-conscious to eat, afraid he would push peas off his plate onto the sparkling cloth.

“Is your meal not to your taste, Mr.—er, Stripe?” the housekeeper asked coolly.

“Oh, excellent, ma’am, thank you,” he answered. Then as they were still looking at him he felt something more was required, and went on. “I—I suppose my thoughts was a little taken up.”

“Well, I hope you in’t going to discuss them ’ere!” The cook blew down her nose in distaste. “Really! We’ve already ’ad Rosie in ’ysterics, and Marigold given notice and gone ’eavens knows where. I don’t know what things are coming to, I swear I don’t!”

“We’ve never had police in a house where I’ve been before,” Sybilla’s maid said stiffly. “Never. It’s only my loyalty that keeps me in this house a moment longer.”

“Neither have we!” Lettie answered her, so quickly the words tripped off her tongue before she had time to consider them. “But what do you want? That we should be left to be murdered in our beds with no one to protect us? I’m very glad they’re here.”

“Ha! I daresay you are.” the housekeeper said tartly.

Lettie blushed a deep pink. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” She looked down at her plate, and beside her one of the upstairs maids giggled, stifling it in her napkin when the butler glared at her.

Stripe felt an undeniable compulsion to defend her. How dare anyone slight her and cause her embarrassment!

“Very dignified of you, miss,” he said, looking straight at her. “Understandin’ adversity and takin’ it calm, like. Good sense is about the best cure for times like these. Lot of ’arm avoided if there was more who showed it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stripe,” Lettie said demurely. But the pinkness crept further up her cheeks, and he dared to hope it was pleasure.

The rest of the meal passed in conversation about trivialities, but when Stripe could no longer think of anything else to ask, Pitt having exhausted his duties in the front of the house, it was time to leave. He went with regret, replaced by a ridiculous elation as Lettie came down into the kitchen on some slight pretext, caught his eye and bade him good night, and then, swishing her skirt with an elegant little step, vanished up the stairs and into the hallway.

Stripe opened his mouth to reply, but it was too late. He turned and saw Pitt smiling, and knew his admiration—he would still call it that—was too plain in his face.

“Very nice,” Pitt said approvingly. “And sensible.”

“Er, yes, sir.”

Pitt’s smile widened. “But suspicious, Stripe, very suspicious. I think you had better question her a lot more—see what she knows.”

“Oh no, sir! She’s as—Oh.” He caught Pitt’s eye. “Yes, sir, I’ll do that, sir. Tomorrow morning, first thing, sir.”

“Good. And good luck, Stripe.”

But Stripe was too full of emotion to speak.

Upstairs in the dining room, dinner was worse than even Charlotte could have imagined. Everyone was there, including Emily, looking ashen with misery. All the women wore either black or gray, except Aunt Vespasia who always refused to. She wore lavender. The first course was served in near silence. By the time they had let their soup grow cold and pushed whitefish in a sauce like glue from one side of the plate to the other, the oppression was becoming unbearable.

“Impertinent little man!” Mrs. March burst out suddenly.

Everyone froze, horrified, wondering wildly whom she was addressing.

“I beg your pardon?” Jack Radley looked up, eyebrows raised.

“The policeman—Spot, or whatever his name is,” Mrs. March went on. “Asking the servants all sorts of questions about matters that are none of his business.”

“Stripe,” Charlotte said very quietly. It hardly mattered, but she was glad of an excuse to retaliate.

Mrs. March glared at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Stripe,” Charlotte repeated. “The policeman’s name is Stripe, not Spot.”

“Stripe, Spot, it’s all the same. I’d have thought you’d have more important things to remember than a policeman’s name.” Mrs. March stared at her, her face cold, eyes like bluish-green marbles. “What are you going to do with your sister? You can’t expect us to bear the burden of responsibility. God knows what she will do next!”

“That was uncalled for,” Jack Radley said furiously. There was instant and icy silence, but he was unabashed. “Emily has enough grief without our indulging in vicious and uninformed speculation.”

Mrs. March sniffed and cleared her throat. “Your speculation may be uninformed, Mr. Radley—although I doubt it. Mine is most certainly not. You may know Emily a great deal more intimately than I do, but you have not known her as long.”

“For heaven’s sake, Lavinia!” Vespasia said hoarsely. “Have you forgotten every vestige of good manners? Emily has buried her husband today, and we have guests at the table.”

Two spots of scarlet stained Mrs. March’s white cheeks. “I will not be criticized in my own house!” she said furiously, her voice rising to a shriek.

“Since you hardly ever leave it anymore, it would seem to be the only place available,” Aunt Vespasia snapped back at her.

“I might have expected that from you!” Mrs. March swung round to glare at Vespasia and knocked over a glass of water. It rolled across the cloth and dripped water noisily down into Jack Radley’s lap, soaking him to the skin, but he was too paralyzed with horror at the scene to move.

“You are perfectly accustomed to having the most vulgar people tramping through your house,” Mrs. March went on, “probing and prying, and talking of obscenities and God knows what among the criminal classes.”

Sybilla gasped and tore her handkerchief. Jack Radley looked at Vespasia in fascination.

“That’s nonsense!” Tassie flew to her favorite grandmother’s defense. “Nobody’s vulgar in front of Grandmama—she wouldn’t let them be! And Constable Stripe is only doing his duty.”

“And if somebody hadn’t murdered George, he wouldn’t have any duty to do in Cardington Crescent,” Eustace pointed out exasperatedly. “And don’t be impertinent to your grandmother, Anastasia, or I shall require you to finish your dinner upstairs in your room.”

Temper flashed in Tassie’s face, but she said nothing more. Her father had dismissed her in the past, and she knew he would do it quite easily now.

“George’s death is not Aunt Vespasia’s fault,” Charlotte said for her. “Unless you are suggesting she killed him?”

“Hardly.” Mrs. March sniffed again, a sound full of irritation and contempt. “Vespasia may be eccentric, even a little senile, but she is still one of us. She would never do such a fearful thing. And she is not your aunt.”

“You’ve tipped your water all over our guests,” Vespasia said curtly. “Poor Mr. Radley is soaked. Do look what you are doing, Lavinia.”

It was so trivial and idiotic it effectively silenced Mrs. March, and there were several moments of peace while the next course was served.

Eustace drew in his breath; his chest swelled. “We have a most distasteful time ahead of us,” he said looking round at each of them in turn. “Whatever our individual weaknesses, we none of us desire a scandal.” He let the word hang in the air. Vespasia closed her eyes and sighed gently. Sybilla still sat totally mute, disregarding everyone, self-absorbed. William looked at Emily, and there was a flash of profound, almost wounding pity in his face.

“I don’t see how we can avoid it, Papa,” Tassie said into the silence. “If it really was murder. Personally I think it was probably some sort of accident, in spite of what Mr. Pitt says. Why on earth would anyone want to kill George?”

“You are very young, child,” Mrs. March said with a curl of her lips. “And very ignorant. There are a multitude of things you do not know, and probably never will, unless you fill out a little and manage to hide all those freckles. To the rest of us it is perfectly obvious, if excessively distasteful.” Again she let her fish-blue eyes rest on Emily.

Tassie opened her mouth to retaliate but closed it again. Charlotte felt a sudden surge of anger for her. Above all things being patronized galled her soul.

“Neither do I,” she said bluntly, “know of any reason why someone should have killed George.”

“You would say that, wouldn’t you.” Mrs. March stared at her malevolently. “I always said George married badly.”

Fire rushed up Charlotte’s cheeks and the blood pounded in her temples. The hard, accusing look in the old woman’s eyes was too plain to misunderstand. She thought Emily had murdered George and intended to see her punished for it.

She gulped air and then hiccuped loudly. Everyone was looking at her, their faces a pale sea mirrored with eyes, horrified, embarrassed, compassionate, accusing. She hiccuped again.

Next to her William leaned forward, poured her a glass of water, and passed it to her. She took it from him in silence, hiccuping once more, then drank a little and tried holding her breath, her napkin held to her lips.

“At least George’s wife was his own choice.” Vespasia filled the void with chipped ice. “He was encumbered with his family regardless of his wishes, and I think there were times when he found it distinctly a burden.”

“You have no notion of loyalty, Mama-in-law!” Eustace said with a slight flaring of his nostrils and a warning note in his voice.

“None at all,” she agreed. “I always felt it a spurious value to defend what is wrong merely because you are related to its perpetrators.”

“Quite.” Eustace avoided Charlotte’s eyes and looked at Emily. “If we find that the—offender—is one of this family, we will still do our duty, painful as it may be, and see that they are locked away. But discreetly. We do not wish the innocent to be hurt as well, and there are many to consider. The family must be preserved.” He flashed a smile at Sybilla. “Some people,” he continued, “ignorant people, can be most unkind. They are apt to tar all of us with the same brush. And now that Sybilla is at last to bear us a child”—his tone was suddenly jubilant, and he gave William a conspiratorial glance—“we trust, the first of many, we must look to the future.”

Emily had a suffocating feeling of being crowded in. She looked at Mrs. March, who looked away, dabbing stupidly at the water she had spilled across the cloth, but it had long since soaked in. Jack Radley gave a half smile, but it died on his lips as he thought better of it.

William had eaten little and now he stopped altogether. His face was as white as the sauce on the fish. Emily already knew him well enough to be aware that he was an acutely private man, and such open discussion of so personal a subject was agonizing to him. She looked away along the table to Sybilla.

But Sybilla was gazing at William, then at Eustace, her face filled with a loathing so intense it was incredible he should be unaware of it.

Tassie picked up her wineglass, and it slipped through her fingers to crash on the table, spilling wine everywhere. Emily had no doubt whatsoever she had done it on purpose. Her eyes were wide, like pits in the bleached skin of her face.

Sybilla was the first to recover. She forced a smile that was painful, worse than the hate before because of the effort behind it. “Never mind,” she said huskily. “It’s a white wine—I daresay it will wash quite easily. Would you like some more?”

Tassie opened her mouth soundlessly, and closed it again.

Emily stared at William, and he looked back at her, ashen, and with a complexity of emotions she could not unravel. It could have been anything, most probably pity for her; perhaps he also believed she had murdered her husband in a frenzy of hopeless jealousy, and that was what he pitied her for. Perhaps he even felt he understood. Was it Eustace, with his complacency, his boundless energy, his virility which had ultimately exhausted Olivia, who had shadowed William’s marriage for so long? Was he terrified Sybilla would die of excessive childbearing, as his mother had done? Or had he never loved Sybilla deeply anyway? Maybe he even loved someone else. Society was full of empty marriages at all levels; since marriage was the only acceptable state for a woman, one could not afford to be pernickety.

She looked at Eustace, but he was busy again with his food. He had problems to consider: keeping his family from hysteria, preventing scandal in Society, and preserving the reputation of the Marches—especially of William and Sybilla, now that the longed-for heir was to come. Emily was an embarrassment, threatening rapidly, if the old lady were to be believed, to become something far worse. He sliced a piece of meat viciously, squeaking his knife on the plate, and his face remained in deep concentration.

Emily looked across the table at Jack Radley. His eyes were candid and startlingly soft. He had been watching her already, before she looked at him. She realized how often she had seen that expression in him recently. He was attracted to her, very strongly so, and it was deeper than the triviality of a flirtation.

Oh, God! Had he killed George for her? Did he really imagine that she would marry him now?

The room swayed around her and there was a roaring sound in her ears as if she were underwater. The walls disappeared and suddenly she could not breathe. She was far too hot ... suffocating ...

“Emily! Emily!” The voice was booming and fuzzy, and yet very close to her. She was sitting on one of the side chairs, half reclining. It was uncomfortable and precarious. She felt as if she might slide off if she were to move. It had been Charlotte’s voice. “You are perfectly all right,” she said quietly. “You fainted. We expected too much of you. Mr. Radley will carry you upstairs, and I’ll help you to bed.”

“I will have Digby bring you up a tisane,” Aunt Vespasia added from somewhere above her in an unfocused distance.

“I don’t need carrying upstairs!” Emily protested. “It would be ridiculous. And why can’t Millicent bring me a tisane—except that I don’t want one.”

“Millicent is upset,” Vespasia replied. “She weeps at the drop of a hat, and is quite the last thing you need. I’ve put her to the stillroom till she can take hold of herself. And you will do as you are told and not cause yourself any more distress by fainting again.”

“But Aunt Vespasia—” Before her argument was formed Charlotte’s borrowed silk was replaced by black barathea, and Jack Radley put his arms round her and lifted her up. “This is quite unnecessary,” she said irritably. “I am perfectly able to walk!”

He ignored her, and with Charlotte going ahead opening doors, Emily was carried out of the dining room, through the hallway, and up the stairs to her bedroom. He laid her on the bed, said nothing, but touched her arm gently and left.

“I suppose it’s a little late to think of it now,” Charlotte said, unbuttoning Emily’s dress. “But your excess of charm to win George back was bound to attract others as well. You shouldn’t really be surprised.”

Emily stared at the pattern on the coverlet. She allowed Charlotte to continue with the buttons. She did not want her to go.

“I’m frightened,” she said quietly. “Mrs. March thinks I killed George because he was making love with Sybilla. She as good as said so.”

Charlotte did not reply for so long that finally Emily swung round and stared at her. Her face was grave, and her eyes were blurred and sad.

“That’s why we have to discover exactly what did happen, painful as it will be—and difficult. I must talk to Thomas privately tomorrow and see what he has learned.”

Emily said nothing. She could feel the fear growing enormous inside her, roaring into the chasm of loneliness for George; the fierce, gripping pain was like ice. The danger was closing round her. If she did not learn the truth soon she would not escape it, perhaps not ever.

Charlotte woke in the night, her skin crawling with horror, her body rigid under the sheets and her fists clenched. Something appalling had torn her from the dark cocoon of sleep.

Then it came again—a high, sharp scream, ripping through the silence of the house. She sat up, clutching the bedclothes as though the room were freezing, although it was midsummer. She could hear nothing, nothing at all.

She climbed out of bed slowly, her feet touching the carpet with a chill. She bumped against a chair. She was longer than usual accustoming her sight to the denseness of the curtained room. What would she find out there on the landing? Tassie? Horrific ideas of blood and the gaslight at the head of the stairs shining on knives swarmed into her imagination, and she stopped in the middle of the floor, holding her breath.

At last there was another sound, footsteps somewhere far away, and a door opening and closing. Then more steps and the confused sounds of fumbling, of people awkward with sleep.

She pulled her wrap off the chair and put it round her shoulders, then opened the door quickly. At the end of the small passage the landing itself was aglow with light. Someone had turned up the lamps. By the time she reached the head of the stairs Great-aunt Vespasia was standing beside the jardinière with the fern in it. She looked old and very thin. Charlotte could not remember ever having seen her with her hair down before. It was like old silver scrollwork, polished too many times till it had been worn away. Now the lamplight shone through it, and it looked vaporous.

“What is it?” Charlotte’s voice cracked, her throat too dry to allow the words through. “Who screamed?”

There was another sound of feet, and Tassie appeared from the stairs to the floor above. She stared at them, her face white and frightened.

“I don’t know,” Vespasia answered them quietly. “I heard two screams. Charlotte, have you been to Emily?”

“No.” It was only a whisper. She had not even thought of Emily. She realized now that she had believed the sound came from the opposite direction, and farther away. “I don’t think—”

But before she could continue Sybilla’s bedroom door swung open and Jack Radley came out wearing nothing but a silk nightshirt.

Charlotte was sickened by a wave of disgust and disappointment, and in an instant the thought flew to her: how could she prevent Emily from knowing about this? She would feel betrayed a second time—however little she cared for him, he had still affected to care for her.

“There’s no need to be concerned,” he was saying with a slight smile, pushing his hands through his hair. “Sybilla had a nightmare.”

“Indeed?” Vespasia’s silver eyebrows rose in disbelief.

Charlotte collected herself. “What about?” she said sarcastically, concealing nothing of her contempt.

William opened his own bedroom door and came out onto the landing looking confused and embarrassed. His face was blurred with sleep and he blinked as though dragged from an oblivion he infinitely preferred.

“Is she all right?” he asked, turning to Jack Radley and ignoring the others.

“I think so,” Jack replied. “She rang for her maid.”

Vespasia walked slowly past without looking at either of them and went into Sybilla’s room, pushing the door open wider. Charlotte followed, partly from some vague idea that she might help but also from a compulsion to know. If Sybilla were ever to tell the truth of what had happened it would be now, when she was still too startled to have thought of a lie.

She followed Vespasia inside and was taken aback. All her ideas were thrown into turmoil when she saw Eustace, decorously wrapped in a blue paisley dressing gown, sitting on the end of the bed, talking.

“Now, now, my dear,” he said firmly. “Have your maid bring you a hot drink, and perhaps a little laudanum, and you’ll sleep perfectly well. You must dismiss these things from your mind, or you will make yourself ill. They are only fancies, quite unreal. You need a good rest. No more nightmares!”

Sybilla was propped up against the pillows, but the bed was in considerable disorder, sheets tangled and blankets crooked, as if she had been thrashing around in them in her sleep. Her mass of hair was loose like a river of black satin, and her face was bloodlessly pale, her eyes wide with shock. She stared back at Eustace speechlessly, as though she barely comprehended his words.

“Perfectly all right,” he repeated yet again. He turned and looked at Charlotte and Vespasia, half apologetically. “Women seem to have such vivid dreams, but a tisane and a dose of laudanum, and in the morning you will have forgotten all about it. Sleep in, my dear,” he said again to Sybilla. “Have your breakfast sent up.” He stood, smiling benignly, but there was a tightness at the corners of his lips and an unusual color marking his cheeks. He looked shaken, and Charlotte could hardly blame him. It had been a terrible shriek in the depth of the night, and Jack Radley’s apparent behavior was inexcusable. Perhaps it was wise for Eustace to try to convince her it was fantasy, although her tight face and burning eyes betrayed her utter disbelief.

“Put it from your mind,” Eustace said carefully. “Right out.”

Involuntarily Charlotte looked at the doorway. William was standing just inside, his face crumpled in anxiety, staring past his father and Vespasia to Sybilla.

She smiled at him, and there was a softness in her face. Charlotte had not seen before. Charlotte knew without question that it was not something sudden, nor was William surprised to see it.

“Are you all right?” he said quietly. The words were simple, almost banal, but there was a directness in them quite unlike Eustace’s assurance. Eustace was speaking for himself; William was asking for her.

Her hands relaxed and she smiled back at him. “Yes, thank you. I don’t think it will happen again.”

“We trust it will not,” Vespasia said coldly, looking back towards the landing, where Charlotte could still see Jack Radley.

“It won’t!” he said a little more loudly than necessary. Looking past Vespasia into the bedroom, he met Sybilla’s eyes. “But if you have any more frights ... dreams”—he said the word heavily—“just scream again. We’ll come, I promise you.” And he turned and walked away, gracefully, the tails of his nightshirt round his bare legs, and disappeared into his own room without looking back.

“Good God!” Vespasia said under her breath.

“Well,” Eustace began awkwardly, rubbing his hands. “Well. All had a bit of a shock. Ah.” He cleared his throat. “Least said, soonest mended. We’ll not refer to it again. All go back to bed and try to get a little sleep. Thank you for coming, Mrs. Pitt, most thoughtful of you, but nothing you can do now. If you need a tisane or a glass of milk, just ring for one of the maids. Thank heaven Mama wasn’t disturbed. Poor woman has more than enough to bear—er ...” He faltered to a stop, looking at no one. “Well. Good night.”

Charlotte went to Vespasia and, without giving a thought to the familiarity of it, put her arm round her, feeling with a start how thin and stiff she was under her wrap, how unprotected her bones.

“Come,” she said gently. “Sybilla will be fine now, but you should have a hot drink. I’ll get you one.”

Vespasia did not shrug off the arm; she seemed almost to welcome it. Her own daughter was dead, now George was dead. Tassie was too young and too frightened. But she was used to servants. “I’ll ring for Digby,” she said automatically. “She’ll get me some milk.”

“No need.” Charlotte walked with her across the landing. “I can heat milk, you know. I do it all the time in my own house—and I’d like to.”

Vespasia’s mouth lifted in the wraith of a smile. “Thank you, my dear. I should appreciate it. It has been a distressing night, and I feel no comfort in Eustace’s rather sanguine hopes. He is quite out of his depth. I am beginning to fear that we all are.”

In the morning Charlotte got up late and with a splitting headache. Hot tea brought to her by Lettie did not help.

Lettie drew the curtains and asked if she might lay out any particular clothes, and if she should draw a bath.

“No, thank you.” Charlotte declined primarily because she did not want to take the time. She must see how Vespasia was, and Emily, and if she could make the opportunity, Sybilla. There was a great deal more to last night’s events than a bad dream; there had been a look of hatred in Sybilla’s eyes, a deliberation in her voice more than the shreds of a nightmare, however vile.

But Lettie remained in the middle of the sunlit carpet, her hands kneading her skirt under her apron.

“I expect the inspector understands a lot of things we don’t, ma’am,” she said quietly.

Charlotte’s first thought was that Lettie was frightened. In the circumstances it was hardly surprising.

“I’m sure he does.” She tried to sound reassuring, although it was the last thing she felt.

But Lettie did not move. “It must be very interesting ...” She hesitated. “Being married to a policeman.”

“Yes.” Charlotte reached for the pitcher of water and Lettie automatically poured it for her. She began to wash.

“Is it very dangerous?” Lettie went on. “Does he get-hurt, sometimes?”

“Sometimes it’s dangerous. But he hasn’t been badly hurt. Usually it’s just hard work.” Charlotte reached for the towel and Lettie handed it to her.

“Do you often wish he did something else, ma’am?”

It was an impertinent question, and for the first time Charlotte realized Lettie was asking because it was of some personal urgency to her. She put down the towel and met Lettie’s blue eyes with curiosity.

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Lettie blushed, and looked away.

“No, I don’t,” Charlotte said honestly. “It was hard to get used to at first, but now I wouldn’t have him do anything else. It is his work, and he is good at it. If you love someone, you don’t want to change them from doing what they believe in. It makes no one happy. Why do you ask?”

Lettie’s blush deepend. “Oh, no reason, ma’am. Just ... just silly thoughts.” She turned away and began fussing with the dress Charlotte was to wear, tweaking unnecessarily at petticoats and removing imaginary specks of dust.

Charlotte learned from Digby that Emily was still asleep. She had taken laudanum and not woken in the night. Even Sybilla’s screams and the comings and goings on the landing had not disturbed her.

She expected Aunt Vespasia to have had breakfast sent up but actually met her at the top of the stairs looking ashen and hollow-eyed, holding on to the bannister, head erect, back stiff.

“Good morning, my dear,” she said very quietly.

“Good morning, Aunt Vespasia.” Charlotte had been intending to go to Sybilla’s room, if necessary to waken her and ask her about last night. Some pretext of concern for her would have been easy enough to find. But Vespasia looked so fragile, she offered her arm, instinctively, something she would not have dreamed of doing a week ago. Vespasia took it with a tiny smile.

“There is no point in speaking to Sybilla,” Vespasia said dryly as they went down. “If she had meant to say anything she would have done so last night. There is a great deal about Sybilla that I do not understand.”

Charlotte let her uppermost thought find words. “I wish we could prevent Emily from finding out. I could strangle Jack Radley myself, cheerfully. He is so abysmally—cheap!”

“I admit I am disappointed,” Vespasia agreed with an unhappy little shake of her head. “I had grown rather to like him. This, as you say, is quite remarkably shabby.”

Breakfast was extraordinary for Eustace’s absence. Not only were all the windows still closed and the silver dishes on the sideboard untouched, but he had sent for a tray in his room. Neither was Jack Radley present; probably too ashamed to face them, Charlotte presumed. Nevertheless she was annoyed. She had wished to make him aware of her contempt.

It was after eleven when she went into the morning room to fetch some more notepaper and found Eustace sitting at the desk, silver inkwell open and a pen in his hand, but the sheet in front of him virgin white. He turned round at the sound of her step, and she saw with incredulity that his right eye was swollen and darkened with an immense bruise and there was a graze on the side of his face. She was too amazed to think what to say.

“Ah, oh ...” He looked awkward. “Good morning, Mrs. Pitt. I—er, I had a slight, accident. Fell.”

“Oh dear,” she said foolishly. “I hope you are not seriously hurt. Have you sent for the doctor?”

“Not necessary! Perfectly all right.” He closed the inkwell and stood up, wincing as his weight came onto his left leg. He let out his breath sharply.

“Are you sure?” she said with more concern than she felt. Her overriding emotion was curiosity. When had this extraordinary accident occurred? To sustain such injuries he must have fallen downstairs, at the very least. “I’m so sorry,” she added hastily.

“Very kind of you,” he answered, his eyes resting on her with appreciation for a moment. Then, as though recollecting some more pressing thought, he limped over to the door and out into the hall.

And at luncheon a totally new dimension appeared, startling Charlotte and obliging her to think far better of Eustace than she wished. Jack Radley came to the table nursing a painful right hand, and with a split and swollen lip. However, he offered no explanation at all, and no one asked him for any.

Charlotte was forced to conclude that Eustace had seen him early in the morning and thrashed him over the disgraceful affair in Sybilla’s room. And, for once, she admired him for it.

Remarkably, Sybilla herself spoke to Jack Radley perfectly civilly, even agreeably, although she looked very tense. Her shoulders were tight, stiff under the thin fabric of her dress, and the very few remarks she made were distracted, her mind obviously elsewhere. Perhaps she had a share of guilt. Had she implied, however obliquely, that he might be welcome?

Charlotte tried to behave as normally as possible, mainly because she did not want Emily to know what had happened—at least, not yet. Time enough for that kind of disillusion when she was home and would not see Jack Radley again.

For now let her believe in accidents.

Emily knew nothing about the extraordinary episode in the night, and the first she observed was early in the afternoon when she came downstairs and sat in the withdrawing room staring at the sunlight on the leaves in the conservatory. She saw William briefly as he came through to his studio. He looked at her with a hollow pain she took for pity but did not speak.

Tassie had gone off on good works again with the curate, visiting the sick or some such thing. Her grandmother said it was unnecessary; in the circumstances she might be excused. But Tassie had insisted. There were certain tasks she would not forgo; apparently she had given an undertaking, and she ignored argument. Eustace had not been present to lend his weight, and for once the old lady lost the contest, retiring to her boudoir to sulk.

Charlotte was with Aunt Vespasia, leaving Emily alone to while away the afternoon. She could not be bothered to occupy herself with any of the usually acceptable feminine tasks—painting, embroidery, music. She had written all the letters that were required of her, and visiting so soon after a family death was out of the question.

Therefore she was doing nothing at all when Eustace came in, limping noticeably. But it was not until he turned to speak to her that she saw the richly purpling bruise round his eye, now almost closed and looking acutely painful.

“Oh!” She drew in her breath sharply. “Whatever happened to you? Are you all right?” Emily stood up without thinking, as if in some way he might actually need her physical assistance.

He smiled awkwardly. “Ah, I tripped,” he said without meeting her eyes. “In the dark. Nothing for you to worry about. I suppose William’s in there”—he waved towards the conservatory—“fiddling about with his damn paints again. He can’t seem to leave them alone for five minutes. God knows, you’d think with all this distress in the family he’d be some use, wouldn’t you? But William always did run away from everything.” He swiveled round, winced with pain as his injured leg took his weight, and then moved towards the conservatory doors, leaving Emily with her answer unspoken on her lips.

She sat down again, feeling even more conscious of her loneliness.

It was several minutes before she became aware of voices, fragmented by the distance, the vines and leaves, and the heavy swags of curtain between the doors. But there was no mistaking the anger in them, the sharp cutting edge of old hatred.

“If you’d damn ... where you should, then you’d have known!” It was Eustace’s voice. William’s reply was indistinguishable.

“... thought you’d have been used to it!” Eustace shouted back.

“Your thoughts, we all know!” This time William’s answer was quite clear, ringing with unutterable disgust.

“... imagination ... never needed to ... your mother!” Eustace’s retaliation was disjointed, blurred by the tangle of plants.

“... mother ... for God’s sake!” William shouted in an explosion of violence.

Emily stood up, unable to bear the intrusion she was unwittingly making into what was obviously a highly intimate matter. She hesitated between leaving by way of the dining room and fleeing to some other part of the house, or having the courage and the effrontery to interrupt the quarrel and end it, at least temporarily. She turned to the conservatory, then back to the dining room, and was startled to see Sybilla in the doorway. For the first time since she had come to Cardington Crescent the look of anguish in Sybilla’s face overrode all Emily’s old hatred of her and prompted a sympathy she could not have imagined even a day before.

“... dare you! I won’t ...” William’s voice rose again, thick with emotion.

Sybilla almost ran across the floor, catching her skirts on the back of a chair and tearing at them impatiently, and disappeared into the conservatory, knocking against flowers and stepping off the path into the damp loam in her haste. A moment later the voices from beyond the leaves froze and there was utter silence.

Emily took a deep breath, her stomach tight, unclenching her hands deliberately, and walked towards the dining room door. She did not wish to be here when any of them returned. She would pretend complete ignorance; it was the only possible thing.

In the main hallway she met Jack Radley. His lip was swollen and there was a line of dried blood on it, and he carried his right hand awkwardly. He smiled at her, and drew in his breath in pain as the lip cracked.

“I suppose you tripped in the dark as well?” she said icily before she could stop herself, then wished she had simply ignored him.

He licked the lip and put his hand to it tenderly, but there was still that same gentleness in his eyes.

“Is that what he said?” he mumbled. “Not at all. I had a row with Eustace and hit him—and he hit me.”

“Obviously,” Emily replied without quite the contempt she had intended. “I am surprised you are still here.” She moved past him to go up the stairs, but he sidestepped and remained in front of her.

“If you expect me to explain myself, you’ll wait in vain. It is none of your business,” he said with an edge to his voice. “I don’t break confidences, even for you. But I admit I expected you of all people not to jump to conclusions.”

She felt a stab of shame. “I’m sorry,” she said very quietly. “I’ve surely wished I could hit Eustace a few times myself. It looks as if you got rather the better of it.”

He grinned, regardless of the blood now staining his teeth. “For what it’s worth,” he agreed. “Emily—”

“Yes?” Then, as he said nothing, she added, “Your face is bleeding. You had better go and wash it. And find some ointment, or it will dry and crack again.”

“I know.” He put his hand on her arm gently and she could feel the warmth of him through the muslin of her sleeve. “Emily, keep your courage. We will find out who killed George—I promise you.”

Suddenly her throat ached abominably and she realized how deeply frightened she was, how close to weeping. Not even Thomas seemed able to help.

“Of course,” she said huskily, pulling away. This was ridiculous. She did not wish him to see her weakness—above all, she did not wish him to know how very agreeable she found him, in spite of her distrust. “Thank you. I’m sure you mean well.” She went hastily up the stairs, leaving him standing in the hall looking after her, and she turned onto the landing without glancing back.