Cardington Crescent

9

EMILY SLEPT BADLY. It was a night full of enormous and ugly dreams, blood-spattered clothes, the rattle of stones on George’s coffin lid, the vicar’s pink face with his mouth opening and closing like a fish. And every time she woke the picture of Jack Radley came back to her, sitting on the nursery stool staring at her, the sun in his hair, and in his eyes the understanding that she knew he was guilty and there could be no escape. She woke at once sweating and chill, staring into the black void of the ceiling.

When she fell asleep again the dreams were worse, billowing one into another, swelling and bursting, then shrinking away into nothingness. Always there were faces; Uncle Eustace smug and smiling, staring at her with those round eyes that saw everything and understood nothing, not caring if she had murdered George or if it was someone else, only determined she should be blamed for it, to keep the March name clear. And Tassie, too mad to know anything. Old Mrs. March’s eyes like glass marbles, blind with malice, shrieking all the time. William with a paintbrush in his hand, and Jack Radley with the sun round his head like a halo, smiling because Emily had murdered her husband for love of him, over one kiss in the conservatory.

She lurched into wakefulness and lay watching the slow light creep across the ceiling. How long had she before Thomas had no choice but to arrest her? Every second ticking away was eating her life; the remnant was slipping into eternity and she was lying here alone and useless.

What was it that had so horrified Sybilla? That had ripped the usual mask off her face to show such hatred—twice; once at dinner two days ago, and then again in the withdrawing room when she overheard the quarrel in the conservatory?

She could bear it no longer and climbed out of bed. It was already light and she could see quite easily where she was going. She put on a wrap over her nightgown and tiptoed across the room to the door. She would ask her! She would go to Sybilla’s room now when she was alone and could not make some polite evasion, or claim a pressing duty, nor would anyone interrupt them.

She opened the door slowly, holding the latch so it would not fall back with a noise. There was no sound outside. She looked up and down the passage. The dawn light came in cool and gray through the windows and fell on the bamboo-patterned wallpaper opposite. A bowl of flowers glowed yellow. There was no one.

She stepped out and walked quickly towards the room she knew was Sybilla’s. She had no doubt what she was going to say. She would tell Sybilla that she had seen that look in her face, and wherever her pity lay, whatever loyalties she thought she had, if she did not tell Emily what act in the past had given birth to such a depth of loathing, she would go to Thomas Pitt and let him discover it in her with pryings and questions which would be far harder. From the anger in which she left the room the night before, she was willing to threaten anything. It was too late to care about sensitivity or embarrassment now.

She found her hand was shaking as she lifted it to grasp Sybilla’s doorknob and turn it slowly. Perhaps it would be locked, and she would be forced to wait till day. She could put off the inevitable answers for a few hours more. But it turned easily in her hand. Of course. Why would anyone lock doors in a house like this? It would mean having to get out of bed to let the maid in. Who wanted to do that? Half the point of having a maid was to avoid getting up and pulling the curtains or drawing the water yourself. If you were going to get out of a warm bed on demand, fresh from sleep, the whole luxury was lost.

She was inside now. It was quite light. The curtains were yellow and the window faced the sun. Sybilla was already awake, sitting upright against the nearest high, carved bedpost, facing the window, her black hair in thick tresses wound at both front and back. The thought passed through Emily’s mind that it was an odd way to wear it.

“Sybilla,” she said quietly, “I’m sorry to intrude, but I couldn’t sleep. I need to talk to you. I believe you know who murdered George, and—” She was at the end of the bed now and she could see Sybilla more clearly. She was sitting very awkwardly, her back rigid against the bedpost and her head a little to one side, as if she had fallen asleep.

Emily came round the far edge of the bed and leaned forward.

Then she saw Sybilla’s face and felt the horror rising inside her, robbing her of breath, freezing her heart. Sybilla was staring with blind, bulging eyes out of swollen flesh, her mouth open, tongue out; the black hair was knotted tight round her throat and swept back round the bedpost and tied again.

Emily opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came at all, only a violent dry ache in her throat. She found she had her hands to her lips, and there was blood on her knuckles where she had bitten them. She must not faint! She must get help! Quickly! And she must get out of here—she must not be alone.

At first she was shaking so much her legs would not obey her. She knocked into the corner of the bed and bruised herself, felt for the chair to regain her balance and nearly upset it. There was no time to be sick—someone else might come and find her here. They blamed her already for George’s death—they would be sure to blame her for this too.

The doorknob was stiff now; twice she turned it and her sweaty fingers let it slip back before she pulled the door open and almost fell out into the corridor. Thank God there was no one else there, no housemaid hurrying down to clean grates or prepare the dining room. Almost running, she made her way to the dressing room where Charlotte was, and without knocking, fumbled for the handle and threw it open.

“Charlotte! Charlotte! Wake up. Wake up and listen to me—Sybilla is dead!” She could dimly make out the form of Charlotte, her hair a dark cloud on the white pillow.

“Charlotte!” She could hear her voice rising hysterically and could not help it. “Charlotte!”

Charlotte sat up, and her whisper came out of the cool grayness. “What is it, Emily? Are you ill?”

“No ... no ...” She gulped painfully. “Sybilla is dead! I think she’s been murdered. I just found her ... in her bedroom ... strangled with her own hair!”

Charlotte glanced at the clock on the bedside table. “Emily, it’s twenty past five. Are you sure you didn’t have a nightmare?”

“Yes! Oh, God! They’re going to blame me for this too!” And in spite of all the strength of will she thought she had, she began to weep, crumpling slowly into a little heap on the end of the bed.

Charlotte climbed out and came to her, putting her arms round her and holding her, rocking her like a child. “What happened?” she said quietly, trying to keep her voice calm. “What were you doing in Sybilla’s room at this time in the morning?”

Emily understood Charlotte’s urgency; she dared not indulge in misery and fear. Only thought, rational and disciplined, could help. She tried to iron out the violence in her mind and grasp the elements that mattered.

“I saw her face at dinner the night before last. For a moment, there was such a look of hatred on it as she turned to Eustace. I wanted to know why. What did she know about him, or did she fear he was going to do something? Charlotte, they are convinced I murdered George, and they are going to make sure Thomas has no choice but to arrest me. I have to find out who did—to save myself.”

For a moment Charlotte was silent; then she stood up slowly. “I’d better go and see, and if you’re right I’ll waken Aunt Vespasia. We’ll have to call the police again.” She pulled on a shawl and hugged it round herself. “Poor William,” she said almost under her breath.

When she had gone Emily sat curled up on the end of the bed and waited. She wanted to think, to see the pattern falling clearly, but it was too soon. She was shivering—not with cold, because the air was warm; the chill was inside, just as the darkness was. Whoever had murdered George had now murdered Sybilla, almost certainly because Sybilla knew who he—or she—was.

Was it something to do with Eustace and Tassie? Or Eustace alone? Or was it Jack Radley after all?

The door opened and Charlotte came back, her face tight and pale in the softening dawn light coming through the windows. Her hands were shaking.

“She’s dead,” she said with a gulp. “Stay here and lock the door behind me. I’m going to tell Aunt Vespasia.”

“Wait!” Emily stood up, and lost her balance; her legs were weak as if her knees would not lock. “I’m coming. I’d rather come with you—anyway, you shouldn’t go alone.” She tried again, and this time her body obeyed her, and wordlessly she and Charlotte crept shoulder to shoulder along the landing, feet soundless on the carpet. The jardinière with its splayed ferns seemed like half a tree, casting octopus shadows on the wallpaper.

They knocked at Vespasia’s door and waited. There was no answer. Charlotte knocked again, then turned the handle experimentally. It was not locked. She opened it and they both slipped in, closing it behind them with a tiny click.

“Aunt Vespasia!” Charlotte said distinctly. The room was darker than Emily’s, having heavier curtains, and in the gloom they could see the big bed and Vespasia’s head on the pillow, her pale silver hair in a coil over her shoulder. She looked very frail, very old.

“Aunt Vespasia,” Charlotte said again.

Vespasia opened her eyes.

Charlotte moved forward into the shrouded light from the window.

“Charlotte?” Vespasia sat up a little. “What is it? Is that Emily with you?” A note of alarm sharpened her voice. “What has happened?”

“Emily remembered something she saw, an expression on Sybilla’s face the other night at dinner,” Charlotte began. “She thought if she understood it, it might explain things. She went to ask Sybilla.”

“At dawn?” Now Vespasia was sitting upright. “And did it—explain things? Have you learned something? What did Sybilla say?”

Charlotte shut her eyes and clenched her hands hard. “Nothing. She’s dead. She was strangled with her own hair round the bedpost. I don’t know whether she could have done it herself or not. We’ll have to call Thomas.”

Vespasia was silent for so long Charlotte began to be afraid; then at last she reached up and pulled the bellpull three times. “Pass me my shawl, will you?” she asked. When Charlotte did so, she climbed stiffly out of bed, leaning on Charlotte’s outstretched arm for support. “We had better lock the door. We don’t want anyone else going in. And I suppose we must tell Eustace.” She took a long, deep breath. “And William. I imagine at this time in the morning Thomas will be at home? Good. Then you had better write him a note and send a footman to bring him and his constable.”

There was a sharp rap on the door, startling them, and before anyone answered it it opened and Digby came in looking disheveled and frightened. As soon as she saw Vespasia herself was all right the fear vanished and was replaced by concern. She pushed the straggling hair out of her eyes and prepared to be cross.

“Yes, m’lady?” she said cautiously.

“Tea, please, Digby.” Vespasia replied, struggling to maintain dignity. “I would like a dish of tea. Bring enough here for all of us—you had better have some yourself. And as soon as you have put the kettle on, waken one of the footmen and tell him to get up.”

Digby stared at her, round-eyed, grim-faced.

Vespasia gave her the explanation she was waiting for. “Young Mrs. March is dead. Perhaps you’d better get two footmen—one for the doctor.”

“We can telephone the doctor, m’lady,” Digby answered.

“Oh, yes, I forgot. I am not yet used to who has these contraptions and who has not. I presume Treves has one.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

“Then get one footman to send for Mr. Pitt. I’m sure he hasn’t got a telephone. And bring the tea.”

The next few hours moved like a feverish dream, a mixture of the grotesque and the almost offensively commonplace. How could the breakfast room look precisely the same, the sideboard laden with food, the windows thrown open? Pitt was upstairs with Treves, bending over Sybilla’s corpse locked in her own hair, trying to decide whether she killed herself or someone else had crept in and tied those lethal knots. Charlotte could not keep it from her mind to wonder if that was why Jack Radley had gone in the night before, not by any amorous design—only she had wakened too soon, and raised the alarm. She knew it must have occurred to Vespasia too.

It was late when they sat down, well after ten, and everyone was at the table. Even William, ashen, hands shaking, eyes haggard, apparently preferred the noise and occupation of company to the loneliness of his room next door to Sybilla.

Emily sat rigid, her stomach knotted so hard she could not bear to eat. It would make her ill. She sipped a little hot tea and felt it burn her tongue and slide painfully down her closed throat. The sounds of crockery and talk alternately outraged and frightened her, swirling round her like so much empty rattle. It could have been the sound of carriage wheels over gravel, or geese in a yard.

Charlotte was eating because she knew she would need the strength it would give her, but the carefully coddled eggs and thin sliced toast might as well have been cold porridge in her mouth. The sunlight glittered on silver and glass and the clink of cutlery grew louder as Eustace fought his way through fish and potato, but even he found little joy in it. The linen was so white it reminded her of snowfields, glaring and cold with the dead earth underneath.

This was ridiculous. Fear was paralyzing her, solidifying like ice. She must force herself to listen to them all, to think, to make her brain respond and understand. It was all here, if only she could tear the fog from her mind and recognize it. It ought to be familiar to her now—she had seen enough murder before, the pain and the fear that led to violence. How could she be so close, and still not know it?

She looked round the table at them one by one. Old Mrs. March was tight-lipped and her fist was clenched beside her plate. Perhaps anger against the injustice of fate was the only way she could keep from being overwhelmed by the tragedy which was engulfing the family in which she had invested her whole life.

Vespasia was silent. She had shrunk; she seemed smaller than Charlotte had thought her, her wrists bonier, her skin more papery.

Tassie and Jack Radley were talking about something totally immaterial, and she knew even without listening that they were doing it to help, so that the silence would not creep in and drown them all. It did not matter what was said; anything, the weather would do. Everyone, each imprisoned in a private little island of horror, was trying to grasp back something of last week, only a tiny span of days ago, when the world had been so ordinary, so safe. They would gladly have brought back the anxieties that seemed pressing then, and so infinitely trivial now.

Charlotte had seen Pitt briefly. He had called her into Sybilla’s bedroom. At first she had drawn back, but he had told her the body was laid out quietly, the hair undone, a sheet over the terrible face.

“Please!” he had said fiercely. “I need you to come in!”

Reluctantly, shivering, she had obeyed, and he had almost pushed her through the door, arms round her. “Sit on the bed,” he had ordered. “No—where Sybilla was.”

She had stood rooted to the spot, pulling against him. “Why?” It was unreasonable, grotesque. “Why?”

“I need you to,” he had said again. “Charlotte, please. I have to know if she could have done it herself.”

“Of course she did!” She had not moved, pulling hard against his strength, and they remained frozen like that, locked in a tug-of-war in the middle of the carpet in the sun.

Pitt was getting cross, because he was helpless.

“Of course she could!” Charlotte had been shaking. “She had it round her throat; then round the bedpost. It’s just like tying a scarf behind your neck, or doing up the back of a dress. She used the bedpost to make it tight enough—the carving on it tightened it again when she slipped down a bit. She must have meant to, or she wouldn’t have stayed there. She’d have moved while she still had the strength. I don’t suppose you black out straightaway. Let go of me, Thomas! I’m not going to sit there!”

“Don’t be silly!” He had begun to lose control, because he understood what he was asking of her and he knew of no other way. “Do you want me to have to get one of the maids? I’m not asking Emily!”

She had stared at him in horror; then, seeing the desperation in his eyes, hearing the edge of it mounting in his voice, she had taken a step towards the bed, still refusing to look at the exact spot where she had seen Sybilla.

“Take the other one.” He had yielded, pointing to the bedpost at the opposite side. “Sit there and reach behind your neck, round the post.”

Slowly, stiffly, she had done as he ordered, stretching her arms up behind her head, reaching the post, feeling her fingers round it, pretending to tie something.

“Lower down,” he had commanded.

She bent them a little lower.

“Now pull,” he had said. “Make it tighter.” He had taken her hands and pulled them down and away.

“I can’t!” Her arms had hurt, her muscles strained. “It’s too low down—I can’t pull that low. Thomas, you’re hurting me!”

He had let go. “That’s what I thought,” he had said huskily. “No woman could have pulled at it that low down behind her own neck.” He had knelt on the bed beside her, put his arms round her, and buried his face in her hair, kissing her slowly, holding her tighter and tighter. There had been no need for either of them to say it. They stayed there close in the silent certainty: Sybilla had been murdered.

Charlotte’s mind returned to the present, to the breakfast table and its painful charade of normality. She wanted to be gentle, comforting, but there was no time. She swallowed the last of her tea and looked round at each of them.

“We have our senses, and some intelligence,” she said distinctly. “One of us murdered George, and now Sybilla. I think we had better find out who, before it gets any worse.”

Mrs. March shut her eyes and grasped for Tassie’s arm, her thin fingers like claws, surprisingly brown, spotted with old age. “I think I am going to faint!”

“Put your head between your knees,” Vespasia said wearily.

The old woman’s eyes snapped open. “Don’t be ridiculous!” she snarled. “You may choose to sit at the breakfast table with your legs around your ears—it would be like you. But I do not!”

“Not very practical.” Emily looked up for the first time. “I don’t suppose she could.”

Vespasia did not bother to lift her eyes from her plate. “I have some sal volatile, if you want it.”

Eustace ignored her, staring at Charlotte. “Do you think that is wise, Mrs. Pitt?” he said without blinking. “The truth may be of a highly distressing nature, especially for you.”

Charlotte knew precisely what he meant, both as to the nature of the truth he believed and how he intended it should be presented to the police.

“Oh, yes.” Her voice was shaking, and she was furious with herself, but she found she could not prevent it. “I am less afraid of what might be discovered than I am of allowing it to remain hidden where it may strike again—and kill someone else.”

William froze. Vespasia put her hand up to her eyes and leaned forward over the table.

“Bad blood,” Mrs. March said with harsh intensity, gripping her spoon so hard it scattered sugar over the cloth. “It always tells in the end. No matter how fine the face, how pretty the manners, blood counts. George was a fool! An irresponsible, disloyal fool. Careless marriages are the cause of half the misery in the world.”

“Fear,” Charlotte contradicted deliberately. “I would have said it was fear that caused the most misery, fear of pain, fear of looking ridiculous, of being inadequate. And most of all, fear of loneliness—the dread that no one will love you.”

“You speak for yourself, girl!” Mrs. March spat at her, turning, white-faced, her eyes blazing. “The Marches have nothing to be afraid of!”

“Don’t be idiotic, Lavinia.” Vespasia sat up, pushing her fallen hair off her brow. “The only people who don’t know fear are the saints of God, whose vision of heaven is stronger than the flesh, and those simpletons who have not enough imagination to conceive of pain. We at this table are all terrified.”

“Perhaps Mrs. March is one of the saints of God?” Jack Radley said sarcastically.

“Hold your tongue!” Mrs. March shouted. “The sooner that incompetent policeman takes you away the better. If you didn’t murder poor George, then you certainly inspired Emily to do it. Either way, you are guilty and should be hanged!”

The blood fled his face, but he did not look away. There was a vacuum of silence. Somewhere across the hall a footman’s steps sounded loudly till they died away beyond the baize door. Even Eustace was motionless.

Vespasia rose to her feet stiffly, as if her back hurt her. Eyes glazed, William rose also and pulled out her chair, steadying her arm.

“I assume Mr. Beamish will send Mr. Hare to console us again,” she said quietly, and with only the slightest tremor, “which is as well; he will be infinitely more use. If he calls I shall be in my room. I would like to see him.”

“Would you like us to send for the doctor, Grandmama?” William found his voice with difficulty. He looked as if he were walking in a nightmare through which he had struggled all night, only to wake and find it still with him, stretching into endless, unalterable reality.

“No, thank you, my dear.” Vespasia patted his hand, and then walked slowly from the room, keeping her balance with care.

“Excuse me.” Charlotte set her napkin by her plate and followed Vespasia out, catching up with her in the hallway and taking her elbow all the way up the long, wide stairs. For once Vespasia did not resist her.

“Would you like me to stay with you?” she asked at the door of the bedroom.

Vespasia looked at her steadily, her face weary and frightened. “Do you know anything, Charlotte?”

“No,” Charlotte said honestly. “But if Emily is right Sybilla hated Eustace, whether for herself or for William or for Tassie, I don’t know.”

Vespasia’s lips tightened and her eyes looked even more wretched. “For William, I should imagine,” she said in barely more than a whisper. “Eustace has never known when to hold his tongue. He is not a sensitive man.”

Charlotte hesitated, on the brink of asking if there was anything else, but drew back from probing any more. She gave the shadow of a smile, and left her.

The idea was hardening in her, and as soon as she was sure the landing was clear, Charlotte went to Sybilla’s door and tried it. The servants had naturally been told what happened, and no maid would venture in here. Pitt had moved Sybilla to the long seat by the window before, for his experiment on the bed, but perhaps he had lifted her back now, to rest in some attitude of peace, providing one did not see the face.

The door was not locked. Maybe there was no need; who would return, except in grief, and in humanity that must be allowed? Both Pitt and Treves must already have seen everything they could, and presumably gone down to the butler’s pantry to consult.

She glanced round the landing once more, then turned the handle and went in. The room faced south and was full of light. There was a shape on the bed, under a sheet. She kept her eyes from it, although she knew perfectly well precisely what she would see if she were to take it off. She must control her imagination and a surprisingly sharp sense of pity, which tugged at her like a bruise of the mind. Sybilla had caused Emily dreadful pain, and yet perversely she could not loathe her as she wished, even when she was alive. She was aware of some hard knot of hurt in Sybilla also, something growing and becoming worse, more acute. She could only hate the comfortable, the unmarked, because she felt alien from them. The moment she saw the wound and believed the pain, her anger slipped away like sand through a sieve. So it had been with Sybilla, and now she intended to search for some sign of what had been the cause.

She stared round. Where to begin? Where did she keep her own private things, things that would reveal to another woman her frailties? Not the wardrobe—that would hold only clothes, and one did not leave private things in a pocket. The bedside table had a small drawer, but maids might tidy that; there was no lock on it. Still she pulled it open in case, and found only handkerchiefs, a lavender bag smelling sweet and dry, a twist of paper that had contained a headache powder, and a bottle of smelling salts. Nothing.

Next she tried the dressing table and found all the things she would have expected: brushes and combs, silk scarves for polishing hair, pins, perfumes and cosmetics. She would like one day to learn how to use them as skillfully as Sybilla had. The thought of the murdered woman’s beauty was peculiarly painful, seeing these small artifices spread out so uselessly now. It was ridiculous to identify with her so much, and yet the knowledge did not dispel the feeling.

There was underwear, as she would have expected, infinitely prettier and newer than her own—probably much the same as Emily’s. But there was nothing about it in which she could see any deeper meaning, no paper or article hidden underneath. She tried the jewel case, and lingered in a moment’s envy for a rope of pearls and an emerald clasp. But again the bare objects told her nothing, gave her no clue as to whether they were more than the ornaments any wealthy and loved woman might have.

She stood in the center of the floor, staring round at the pictures, the curtains, the enormous four-poster. Surely there must be something.

Under the bed! She knelt down quickly and threw up the long counterpane to see. There was a trunk for clothes, and beside it, in the shadow, a small vanity case. Instantly she hauled it out, and still kneeling, tried the lid. It was locked.

“Damn!” she swore fiercely. “Damn, damn, damn!” She thought for a moment, peering at it. It was a very ordinary lock, small and light. There was a little tongue of metal holding the catch. If she could just move that! Where was the key? Sybilla must have had one ...

Where did she keep her own keys? In the jewel case, of course, in the space underneath the tray for earrings. That was where she kept her own suitcase keys, not that she traveled very often these days. She scrambled to her feet, tripping over her skirt, and landed half on top of the dressing-table stool. It was there, a little brass key about an inch long, in with the gold chains.

It opened the vanity case on the floor, and with fingers fumbling with excitement Charlotte pushed back the lid and saw the pile of letters and two little white kid-bound books. One had ADDRESSES written on the front. She looked at the letters first. They were love letters from William, and after the first one she checked only the names. They were passionate, tender, written with a delicacy of wording that brought back to her mind the painting on the easel in the conservatory, full of so much more than merely wind in spring trees. There was in it all the subtlety of the turning year, of blossom and ice, and the knowledge of change.

She hated herself for doing it. They were all from William; there was nothing else, nothing from George—but then George was not a man who wrote love letters, and any other man’s would surely be clumsy and inarticulate beside these.

She picked up the unmarked book. It was a diary begun some years ago in an ordinary notebook, no dates printed, no headings except those Sybilla had written herself.

Charlotte opened it at random and saw the notation, Christmas Eve, 1886. A few months ago. She read with horror.

William has been painting all day. I can see it is brilliant, but I wish he would not spend so much time on it, leaving me alone with the family. The old woman is still asking me when I propose to become a “real woman” and bear a family, an heir for the Marches. There are times when I hate her so much I would gladly kill her if I knew how. Perhaps I would regret it afterwards, but it could hardly be worse than the way I feel now. And Eustace sits there talking about what a waste William is—painting life instead of living it. And he looks at me unctuously, all the time I feel as if his eyes see through my clothes. He has such manhood! How can I ever have been insane enough to let him make love with me? I would give anything on earth to have refused him—but that is a pointless thought, we are both locked in it, and I dare not tell anyone. Tassie would be appalled, not for her father—sometimes I think she has no love for him anyway—but for William, whom she loves so much, and with such gentleness. More than most sisters, I think.

Dear God! I’m so miserable I don’t know what to do. But cowardice won’t help. I have always been able to charm men. I will find a way out.

Charlotte was shaking, and in spite of the heat in the closed room there were trickles of sweat chilling on her body. Was that what it was all about with George? Not a grand passion at all, not even the vanity of a beautiful woman, but a protection from Eustace? The thought made her feel sick.

She flicked through more pages of the little book till she came to the end. She read the last entry.

I can hardly believe it! Nothing seems to shatter his appetite or frighten him! I am almost driven into thinking it was a nightmare as he tried to make us all believe. I have to look at Jack to make myself sure.

Poor Jack. Grandmother Vespasia looks at him with such disappointment; I think she really liked him. He is just the sort of man I fancy she would have led a rare dance when she was young. And Charlotte! She is disgusted, and it shows so plainly in her face. I imagine that is on Emily’s account. I wish I had a sister who cared for me so much. I never before felt as if I needed one, someone to trust, who would defend me. But I do now.

Perhaps my screaming will be enough. Please God. Eustace did look truly horrified, just for a moment, before he thought what to say when everyone came running. I don’t think he really believed I would, until I opened my mouth.

And, so help me God—if he comes again I shall scream again, I don’t care what anyone thinks—and I told him I would.

Now he has a black eye and Jack a split lip.

Jack must have gone to his room and thrashed him. Dear Jack.

But what on earth can I do when he leaves?

Please, God, help me.

And there it ended. There had not been another morning for Sybilla to write.

But why had she not told William?

Because William already had no love for his father, and she was afraid of what he would do in rage and the depth of his hurt and revulsion. Or perhaps because in any battle between William and Eustace, she was afraid Eustace would always win. No wonder she hated him.

There was a noise outside the door—not the light trip of a housemaid, but a heavy tread. A man’s step.

There was no time to escape; the footsteps stopped and someone touched the doorknob. In a panic she threw the vanity case back under the bed and rolled in after it, banging against something hard, snatching her skirts after her and pulling down the counterpane just as the door opened and, after a moment, closed again. He was in the room, whoever he was.

She was huddled up against the trunk, the vanity case digging into her back, but she dared not move. She thought of Sybilla lying stiff and cold a few feet above her on the bed; there was only the thickness of the springs and the mattress between them.

Who was it? He was opening and closing drawers, searching through them. She heard the wardrobe door squeak just as it had for her, and then the rustle of taffeta, a swish of silk. Then it closed again.

Dear heaven! Was he looking for the little book she still had in her hand? His feet were moving back this way. She would have given a lot to know who it was, but she dared not lift the counterpane even an inch to look. Whoever it was might be facing this way, and he would surely see. And then what? Haul her out and, at best, accuse her of robbing the dead—

The vanity case was digging into her, its edges bruising her back. The feet had not moved. There was a faint sound—of shifting weight, and rustling cloth—what was it?

The answer was instant. The counterpane was whipped away and she was staring, paralyzed, into Eustace’s red face and round eyes.

For a long, terrible second he was as transfixed as she was. Then he spoke, his voice a parody of its usual self.

“Mrs. Pitt! Is there anything whatsoever you can say to explain yourself?”

Had he any idea what was written in Sybilla’s book? She clung to it so hard her fingers were white. She tried to speak, but her throat was dry, and she was so frightened she could not move. She could not even crawl backwards, because of the trunk. If he decided to attack her, to get back the damning book—and that was surely what he had been looking for—then the only escape she had was to stay here, where he could not reach her. It was too low for his thick body to get in.

That was preposterous. She could hardly remain under the bed until someone else came to coax her out.

“Mrs. Pitt!” Eustace’s face was hard now, his eyes dangerous. Yes, he had seen the little white leather book in her hand, and guessed what it was, if he did not already know. She stared back at him like a rabbit.

“Mrs. Pitt, how long do you propose to remain under the bed? I invited you to my house in order to be of comfort to your sister in her bereavement, but you force me to think you are as mentally infirm as she is!” He held out his hand, strong and square; even now she noticed how clean it was, how perfectly manicured the nails. “And give me the book,” he added with only the slightest stammer. “I will pretend I do not know you took it. It will be for the best, but I believe you should return to your own house at once. You are obviously unsuited to remain in a household such as ours.”

She did not move. If she gave him the book he would destroy it, and there would be nothing left except her word, which no one would have believed against his even before this.

“Come!” he said angrily. “You are being foolish! Get out of there!”

She reached up slowly to her neck and undid the top three buttons of her dress.

He stared at her in horrified fascination, and in spite of himself his eyes went to her bosom, always one of her handsomest assets.

“Mrs. Pitt!” he said hoarsely.

Very carefully she pushed the little white book down the front of her dress and fastened it up again. It felt uncomfortable, and no doubt looked ridiculous, but he would have to tear her bodice to take it from her, and that would be very hard indeed for him to explain.

Still looking at him, his eyes now hot and furious—perhaps he was as frightened as she was—she scrambled very awkwardly out from under the bed and stood up, rumpled and stiff, her legs shaking.

“That book does not belong to you, Mrs. Pitt,” he said grimly. “Give it to me!”

“It doesn’t belong to you either,” she answered with as much courage as she could. He was very strong, thick-chested, broad-hipped, and he stood between her and the door. “I shall give it to the police.”

“No, you won’t.” He reached out and took her arm. His fingers closed right around her, immovably.

Her breath almost choked her. “Are you going to tear my dress off to get it, Mr. March?” She tried to make her voice light, and failed. “That will be extremely awkward for you to explain, and I shall scream—and you won’t pass this off as a nightmare!”

“And how will you account for being here in Sybilla’s room?” he asked. But he was afraid, and she smelled it in the air, felt it in the bruising pressure of his fingers.

“How will you?”

His mouth flickered in the sickest of smiles. “I shall say I heard a sound in here and came in, and I found you going through Sybilla’s jewel case—the reason for that will be painfully obvious.”

“Then I shall say the same!” she countered. “Only it was not the jewel case, it was the vanity case under the bed. And I shall say you found the diary, and then everyone will read what is in it!”

His hand weakened. She saw the fear deepen in his face and sweat break out through the skin of his upper lip and above his eyebrows.

“Let me go, Mr. March, or I shall call out. There must be maids around, and Aunt Vespasia is in her room across the landing.”

Slowly, an inch at a time, he took his hand away, and she waited till it was fully gone, just in case he changed his mind, before she turned and walked, legs wobbling, to the door and out onto the landing. She felt light-headed and a little sick with relief. She must find Thomas immediately.