Cardington Crescent

10

CHARLOTTE FOUND PITT in the butler’s pantry and threw the door open, interrupting Constable Stripe in midsentence, and barely hesitating to apologize.

“Thomas! I’ve discovered the answer, or at least one of the answers—excuse me, Constable—in Sybilla’s diary, something I never even thought of.” She stopped abruptly. Now that they were both staring at her she felt vulnerable for the secret she had discovered. Not for Eustace—she would happily have seen him humiliated. But for Sybilla she felt unexplainably naked.

“What have you found?” Pitt asked anxiously, his eyes wide, seeing the fear and the flush in her face more than hearing her words. There was no triumph in her.

She glanced at Stripe—only for a moment, but he saw it, and instantly she was sorry. She swung round to turn her back to him, unbuttoned her dress just enough to pull out the diary, and handed it to Pitt.

“Christmas Eve,” she said very quietly. “Read the entry for Christmas Eve, last year, and then the very last one.”

He took the book and opened it, riffling through the pages till he came to December, then turned them one by one. Finally he stopped altogether, and she watched his face as he read it, the mixture of anger and disgust slowly blurring and becoming inextricably confounded with pity. He read the end.

“And he killed George over her.” He looked up at Charlotte, and passed the book without explanation to Stripe. “I suppose poor Sybilla knew, or guessed.”

“I wonder why he didn’t look for the book when he killed her,” she said with quiet unhappiness.

“Maybe he heard something,” Pitt replied. “Someone else awake—even Emily coming. And he dared not wait.”

Charlotte shuddered. “Are you going to arrest him?”

He hesitated, weighing the question, looking at Stripe, whose face was red and unhappy.

“No,” he answered flatly. “Not yet. This isn’t proof. He could deny it all, say it was Sybilla’s imagination. Without any other evidence, it’s only her word against his. To make it known now would hurt William, perhaps even cause more violence and more tragedy.” His mouth moved in the faintest of smiles. “Let Eustace wait and worry for a while. Let’s see what he does.” He looked at Charlotte. “You said there was another book, with addresses?”

“Yes.”

“Then we had better get that as well. It may mean nothing, but we’ll check through them all, see who they are.”

Charlotte went obediently back to the door. Pitt hesitated, looking at Stripe with a half smile. “Sorry, Stripe, but I shall need you for this, and it may take some time.”

For a moment Stripe did not understand the reason for the apology; then his face fell and the pink crept up his cheeks.

“Yes, sir. Er ...” His head came up. “Would there be time, sir ... ?”

“Of course there would,” Pitt agreed. “But don’t waste words. Be back here in fifteen minutes.”

“Yes, sir!” Stripe waited only until Charlotte and Pitt were round the corner in the corridor before he shot out, stopped the first maid he saw, which chanced to be the parlormaid, and asked her where Miss Taylor was at that moment.

He looked so urgent and impressive in his uniform that she responded immediately, without her usual prevarication towards strangers in the house—especially of the lower orders, such as police, chimney sweeps, and the like.

“In the stillroom, sir.”

“Thank you!” He turned on his heel and made his way, past the other small rooms for numerous household duties, to the stillroom, which had originally been used for the making of cordials and perfumes but was now largely for tea, coffee, and the storing of sweetmeats.

Lettie was putting a large fruitcake into a tin and she turned at the rather heavy sound of his feet. She was even prettier than last time he saw her. He had not noticed before how her hair swept off her brow, or how delicate her ears were.

“Good morning, Mr. Stripe,” she said with a little sniff. “If you’ve come to look at this coffee, you’re welcome, I’m sure, but there’s no point. It’s all new in—”

Stripe brought his mind to attention. “No, I didn’t,” he said more firmly than he would have believed. “We’ve got some new evidence.”

She was interested in spite of herself, and frightened. She liked to tell herself she was independent, but in truth she had a strong loyalty to the household, especially Tassie, and she would have gone to great lengths to prevent any of them being hurt, especially by outsiders. She stood still, staring up at Stripe, her mind racing over what he might say and how she should answer.

She gulped. “Have you?”

He wished he could comfort her, reassure her, but he dared not—not yet.

“I’m going to ’ave to go away to look into it.”

“Oh!” She looked startled, then disappointed. Then as she saw the pleasure in his face and realized she had betrayed herself, she straightened so stiffly her back was like a ramrod, and her chin so high her neck hurt. “Indeed, an’ I suppose that’s your duty, Mr. Stripe.” She did not trust herself to go on. It was ridiculous to be upset over a policeman, of all things!

“I may be quite a time,” he went on. “Might even find the solution—and not come back again.”

“I hope you do. We don’t want terrible things like this happening and no one caught.” She moved as if to turn back to the cake tin and the rows of tea caddies, but changed her mind. She was confused, not certain whether she was angry with him or not.

Pitt’s admonition was ringing in his ears. Time was sliding by. All must be won or lost now. He screwed up his courage and plunged in, staring at the Chinese flower design on the jar behind her. “So I came to say as I’d like it very much if I could call on you, personal, like.”

She drew in her breath quickly, but since he was not looking at her he could not judge the reason.

“Perhaps you’d come with me for a walk in the park, when the band’s playing? It can be ...” He hesitated again and met her eyes at last. “Most pleasant,” he finished, cheeks hot.

“Thank you, Mr. Stripe,” she said quickly. Half of her told herself she was crazy, walking out with a policeman! What on earth would her father have said? The other half was tingling with delight—it was what she had wanted most in the world for about three days. She swallowed hard. “That sounds very agreeable.”

He beamed with relief, then, collecting his composure, remembered a little dignity and stood to attention.

“Thank you, Miss Taylor. If my duties take me away I’ll write you a letter and”—in a wave of triumph—“I’ll call for you at three o’clock on Sunday afternoon!” And he left before she could demur.

She waited only until his footsteps had died away. Then she jammed the rest of the tea she was sorting all into one jar, and ran upstairs to tell Tassie, a remarkable amount of whose own secrets she herself shared.

Charlotte sat on the edge of her bed struggling with her growing desire to escape going down to dinner altogether. Pitt had gone with the address book to pursue the names in it and she felt a chill without him. Facing Eustace across the table would be appalling. He must surely know beyond question that she had shown the diary to Pitt, and that Pitt must be weighing whether to make it public.

And what of William? His own father, who so clearly despised him, with the wife to whom he had written such love letters! It would be unbearable. It was that which hardened in her mind the already half-made decision not to tell Emily. Let no one know who did not have to. It was not certain beyond any other possibility that Eustace had murdered George in a passion of jealousy; after all, he could hardly imagine any claim on Sybilla. If he was driven by jealousy it could only be if she had refused him in George’s favor.

Then a coldness drenched her, much stronger, more sure in its grasp. Of course. Sybilla dared not look to William for protection, both because she would not wish him ever to know of her first weakness—lunacy, as she had called it—and because she was afraid for him if he and Eustace quarreled. Eustace might in malice make sure everyone else knew he had cuckolded his own son. She could imagine the old lady’s face if she heard—and Tassie, who loved William with such sensitivity.

No. Far better, far wiser for Sybilla to seek her defense in George, who could be so startlingly considerate at times, when he understood the wound. He was loyal, without judgment; he would have helped her and kept silent.

Only he had done the unforeseen and become enchanted with her himself, and there had begun the unraveling of all the plan.

And then Jack—Jack had understood and helped her as well. But understood how much?

She would tell Emily nothing. Not yet.

But, dear heaven, she did not want to go through the charade of dinner! How could she excuse herself? To the company it would be easy: she had a headache, she was unwell. There would be no need to explain that; women were always getting headaches, and she had certainly had enough to justify one.

Aunt Vespasia would be concerned for her and send Digby with medicines and advice. Emily would miss her at table, and what excuse would satisfy her, or Thomas? He would not accept a headache. He would expect her to go down, and watch, and listen. That was the reason she had given him for remaining here at all. Ladies with servants might take to their beds with the vapors; working women were expected to keep on, even with fevers or consumption. He would see it for an attack of cowardice—exactly as it was. On the whole, facing Eustace was the lesser evil.

At least, she thought so until she sat down at the table, determined not to look at him, and in her very consciousness of him ended by meeting his eyes precisely when he was staring at her. She averted her gaze instantly, but it was too late. The chicken in her mouth turned to wet sawdust, her hands were clammy, and she all but dropped her fork. Surely everyone else must be looking at her, too, and wondering what on earth was the matter with her. It could only be politeness that kept them from asking. She was staring at the white ice sheet of the tablecloth, away from the dazzling facets of the chandeliers and the light on the cut glass of the cruet sets, but all her mind saw was Eustace’s face.

“I think the weather is going to break,” old Mrs. March said joylessly. “I hate wet summers; at least in winter one can sit by a decent fire without feeling ridiculous.”

“You have a fire all through the year anyway,” Vespasia replied. “That boudoir of yours would suffocate a cat!”

“I don’t keep cats,” Mrs. March replied instantly. “I don’t like them. Insolent creatures, don’t care for anyone but themselves, and there is more than enough selfishness in the world already without adding cats to it. But I did have a dog”—she shot a look of intense hatred at Emily—“until somebody killed it.”

“If it hadn’t preferred George to you it wouldn’t have happened.” Vespasia pushed her plate away in disgust. “Poor little creature.”

“And if George hadn’t preferred Sybilla to Emily, none of it would.” Mrs. March was not to be beaten, especially not at her own table in front of strangers whom she despised, and not by Vespasia, whom she had resented for forty years.

“You said before that it was because Emily preferred Mr. Radley,” Charlotte interrupted, looking at the old lady with raised eyebrows. “Have you discovered something that changed your mind?”

“I think the less you have to say the better, young woman!” Mrs. March flicked a scornful eye over her and continued eating.

“I thought perhaps you had learned something new,” Charlotte murmured. Then, impelled by an inner compulsion, she looked sideways at Eustace.

It was an extraordinary expression she surprised on his face—not exactly fear—something that had superceded it, half curiosity. He was the supreme hypocrite, self-important and insensitive, plowing on in his obsession with dynasty, regardless of the trampling of subtle and private emotions. But she realized with uncomfortable surprise that he did not lack courage. He was beginning to regard her in a way quite different from the uninterested condescension which had possessed him before. She read in that one glance that she had become not only an adversary, but a woman. The passage in the diary came back to her as sharply as if it were on the tablecloth in front of her—What manhood he has!—and she felt her face flame. The thought was so profoundly repellent her hands shook, her fork clattering on the plate. Perhaps Sybilla had made other references, obliquely—even in detail! Her face was burning; she felt as if her dress had come undone in front of everyone, especially Eustace. He might even know what she had read, and more. He might in his own mind be repeating the words, and sharing them with her, imagining her response. She shuddered. Then, because civility demanded it, she looked up—and found Jack Radley, seated beside Emily, regarding her with concern.

“Have you discovered something?” Tassie added with distressing perspicacity.

“No!” Charlotte denied too quickly. “I don’t know who it was—I don’t know at all!”

“Then you’re a fool,” Mrs. March said viciously. “Or a liar. Or both.”

“Then we are all fools or liars.” William laid his napkin beside his untouched plate. Where others had pushed the food around and eaten a mouthful or two, he had not even pretended.

“We are not all fools.” Eustace did not look at Charlotte, but she knew as well as if he had that he was speaking to her. “Doubtless one of us knows who killed George and Sybilla, but the rest of us have sufficient wisdom not to speculate aloud on every thought that comes into our minds. It can only cause unnecessary grief. We must remember Christian charity as well as righteous indignation.”

“What in heaven’s name are you talking about?” Vespasia demanded with startling anger. “Christian charity towards whom? And why? You never had an ounce of charity in you all your life. Why the sudden about-face? Are you on the other end, for once?”

Eustace looked as if he had been struck. He fumbled for a reply but found nothing that shielded him from her brilliant suspicion.

Not because she cared a lot about Eustace, but because she must defend William from the humiliation—above all, from Eustace himself—Charlotte interrupted with the first thing that came into her head.

“We all have things to hide,” she said overly loud. “Foolishness, if not guilt. I have seen enough investigations to know that. Perhaps Mr. March is just beginning to learn. I’m sure he would wish to protect his family, whether he is concerned for the rest of us or not. He may believe Emily will not retaliate, no matter what is said of her, but I don’t think he misjudges me in the same way.”

Vespasia was silent. If she thought anything more she preferred not to say it now.

William looked at her with the shadow of a smile, so thin it was painful, and Jack Radley put his hand on Emily’s arm.

“Indeed?” Mrs. March regarded Charlotte with a curl of her lip. “And what on earth could you say that my son would care about in the slightest?”

Charlotte forced a smile to her face. “You are inviting me to do precisely what we have just agreed would be most unfortunate—cause unnecessary distress by speculation. Is that not so, Mr. March?” She lifted her eyes and met Eustace’s.

He was surprised, and a series of thoughts flashed through his mind so vividly she could trace them as if they had been pictures: alarm, temporary safety, a budding irony—a perception new to him—and finally, a reluctant admiration.

She had a hideous feeling that at that precise moment, had she wished, she might have filled the place so lately left by Sybilla, but this time she stared him out, and it was he who lowered his eyes.

Still she slept badly. She had not offered Aunt Vespasia any explanation of her extraordinary confrontation with Eustace, and she felt guilty for it. Emily was still too absorbed in her own grief and the weight of fear that haunted her to have noticed.

It was long after midnight when she heard the noise outside, very slight, as of a pebble falling. Then it came again and she was surer of it. She got out of bed and went to the window, careful to disturb the curtain as little as possible, and looked out. She could see nothing but the familiar garden in the hazy light of a half moon.

Then the noise came again; a tiny, thin plink. A pebble fell from above, touched the sill, and bounced out and into the void. She did not hear it land. Still she could see no one. They must be standing so close to one of the ornamental bushes that one shadow consumed them both.

An assignation for one of the housemaids? Surely not! A girl caught in such an act would lose not only her present position and the roof over her head, but her character also, which would preclude any future position as well. She would be reduced to the grim choices of a sweatshop or the streets, where she must live by thievery or prostitution. Even the hot flush of romance seldom inspired such dangerous abandon. There were better ways.

Whose window was above hers? Everyone had bedrooms on this floor—except Tassie! Tassie had kept her old childhood bedroom in the nursery wing upstairs, to leave sufficient guest rooms free.

Charlotte made up her mind instantly; any time for thought and her nerve would fail. She did not bother with underwear but grasped her warmest, plainest dark dress, climbed into it, and pulled on her boots and buttoned them, fumbling in the dark. She dared not light one of the lamps. Even with the curtains drawn the watcher outside might see it. She had no time to do more with her hair than tie it back. Then, having found her coat, she waited behind the door, straining her ears, till she heard the very faintest footfall on the landing.

She waited a moment longer, then opened the door and went out silently, closing it after her. At the head of the stairs she was just in time to see a shadow at the bottom turn and disappear, not towards the front but in the direction of the baize door and the kitchens. Of course—the front door had bolts on it which could not be fastened from the outside. In the scullery one of the servants would be blamed.

She ran down as quickly as she could, holding her skirts. She must be careful not to make a sound or get so close that Tassie might glance backwards and see her.

Was she sleepwalking? Or taken by some intermittent madness? Or quite sane, but about some dreadful business that splashed her with blood?

For a moment Charlotte hesitated. It was a delusion to say it could not be anything grotesque; horrors did happen, she knew it only too well. Before George’s death Pitt had been called to a case of murder so horrific even he had come home white-lipped and sick—a woman dismembered and left in parcels round Bloomsbury and St. Giles.

She was standing rigid, alone in the hallway. Ahead of her the baize door had almost stopped swinging. Tassie must be in the scullery by now. There was no more time to decide: either she followed her and learned the truth, or she went back to bed.

The door was perfectly still. If she did not hurry she would lose Tassie. Without allowing herself to think any longer she crossed the last few steps of the hall and pushed through the door and into the servants’ wing. The kitchens were deserted, smelling clean and warm; odors of scrubbed wood, flour, and, as she passed the stoves, coal dust. She could see the gleam of light on the scuttles from the streetlamp through the window. The scullery was piled with vegetables and buckets and mops. Her skirt caught against the handle of a pail and she stopped only just before it overbalanced and crashed down onto the stone floor.

The outer door ahead of her was closed; Tassie had already gone. Charlotte tried the handle and found it turned easily.

Outside the night was only a little cooler than the house. There was no breeze here in the high-walled yard. The sky was shredded with a few faint mares’ tails of cloud, but the half moon shed a milky light in which she could see the back windows, the housing of the chute down into the coal cellars, several bins for rubbish, and at the far side, the gate out into the areaway and the street, and the yellow globe of a lamp above the wall. Tassie was somewhere out on the road.

Carefully lifting the latch with both hands and holding it so it would not fall, Charlotte pulled the gate open and looked outside. To the left there was nothing but the pavement; to the right, the slender figure of Tassie walking rapidly down the Crescent.

Charlotte followed, closing the gate behind her and hurrying a dozen yards before Tassie disappeared round the corner into the main avenue. Now she was free to run without fear of drawing attention to herself. There was no one else in sight, and if she delayed Tassie might be gone when she emerged into the avenue herself. Then she would never know what violent intrigue took a nineteen-year-old heiress out in the small hours of the night and brought her home reeking with blood.

But when she got to the corner and raced round it, stopping suddenly in case her feet on the cobbles were too loud and made Tassie turn, she saw no one at all along the broad sweep of the tree-lined way. Charlotte stood with the frustration boiling up inside her—and saw Tassie come out of the shadow of a sycamore fifty yards ahead, moving very quickly.

Charlotte had been too slow. She had not imagined such haste, and now if she were to keep Tassie in sight she must run, as light-footed as possible, and within the shadows as much as she could. If Tassie were to realize she was being followed, at best any chance of discovering her secret would be lost, and the worst hardly bore thinking of—a fight with a madwoman alone in the midnight streets. That blood had come from someone!

If Pitt knew about this he would be furious—he would quite probably never forgive her. The very thought of the words he would use made her cringe. But it was not his sister who faced trial and the gallows if they failed. Even a reasonable and fair-minded person would have to agree that Emily had as good a motive for murdering her husband as most women could imagine.

Tassie was still walking swiftly along the avenue, and Charlotte was only ten yards behind her now. But when she turned off without warning into a side street, narrower and poorer, Charlotte was caught by surprise. She had been lost in her thoughts and was startled back to awareness with an unpleasant realization of how close she had been to losing Tassie, and continuing alone to God knew where.

This new street was also residential, but the houses were meaner, closer together; graciousness had yielded to necessity.

They had come to the end of the street, and Tassie was still walking rapidly, as if she knew precisely where she was going. They were now in a road which was little more than an alley, close-walled and grimy, with sagging houses propped against one another, dark threatening recesses into yards, and shadows like unknown stagnant pools. There was no one else in sight but a scrawny urchin with a huge cap a few yards ahead of Tassie, walking in the same direction. Charlotte shivered, although she was warm from hurrying and the night was mild. She dared not think how afraid she was, or she would lose her nerve and turn tail, as fast as flying feet could carry her, back to the broad, clean, familiar avenue.

But Tassie seemed to be without fear; her step was quick and light and her head was high. She knew where she was going and looked forward to getting there. There was no one in sight but the urchin, Tassie, and Charlotte herself, but God knew what lurked in the doorways. Where on earth could Tassie be going in this sour maze of tenements and grimy, pinchpenny shops? She could not possibly know anyone—could she?

Charlotte’s heart missed a beat and coldness rippled through her. Had George also wakened one night or, perhaps returning from Sybilla’s room, seen Tassie, and followed her? Was Charlotte doing exactly what he had done? Had George discovered her abominable secret—and died for it?

Incredibly her feet did not stop; some other part of her brain seemed to be governing them and they kept on quite automatically, hurrying almost soundlessly along the dank street. She was aware now of figures slumped in doorways, of movement in the black alleyways amid the heaps of refuse. Rats, or people? Both. It was in alleys like this that Pitt’s men had discovered the dismemhered parts of the girl less than a month ago.

Charlotte felt sick, but the thought would not be turned away. It was the figure tiptoeing up the stairs, the blood, and the terrible serenity.

How far were they from Cardington Crescent? How many times had they turned? Tassie was still ahead of her, only ten or twelve yards; she dared not allow the distance to become greater in case Tassie turned suddenly and Charlotte lost her. She was a slight figure, almost as thin as the urchin in front of her and the other ragged shadows that swam on the edge of her vision.

It was too late to go back. Wherever Tassie went she would have to wait for her; alone she would not know how to find her way out of this slum.

One large figure took shape, detaching itself from the bulging, irregular walls. A man with broad shoulders. But far from being afraid, Tassie went towards him with a little murmur of pleasure and lifted her arms, accepting his embrace as naturally as a sweet and familiar blessing. The kiss was intimate, as easy as people who love each other with unquestioning trust, but it was swift, and the next moment Tassie disappeared into the nearest doorway, and the man after her, leaving Charlotte alone in the dark, chipped, and slimy pavement. The urchin had seemingly vanished.

Now she was really frightened. She could feel the darkness coming closer, figures moving uneasily with shuffling feet, a slithering in the alleys, a settling of beams and dripping of water leaking from hidden drains. If she were robbed and killed here, not even Pitt would ever find her.

What was this place? It looked like an ordinary, mean house. What inside it drew Tassie here alone, and at midnight? She would have to wait here till she came out, then follow her again until—

There was a hand on her shoulder and her heart jumped so violently the shriek was forced out of her in a shrill yelp that choked off in inarticulate terror.

“Wot yer be doin’ ’ere, Missy?” a voice growled in her ear. Hot, rank-smelling breath. She tried to speak, but her throat was so tight the words died. The hands over her mouth were coarse and the skin had the acrid smell of dirt. “Well, Missy meddler?” The voice was so close the breath moved her hair. “Wot yer want ’ere, then? Come spyin’, ’ave yer? Come ter tell tales, ’ave yer? Goin’ a runnin’ back for Papa ter tell ’im all abaht it, are yer? I’ll give yer summin worf tellin’, then!” And he yanked her savagely, bending her back and taking her off balance.

She was still shivering with fear, but anger was mounting as well, and she jabbed her elbow back sharply and at the same time trod back with her heel, putting all her weight into it. It caught the man on the instep and he howled with pained outrage.

It was just about to descend into something far uglier, when a woman’s voice cut across them angrily.

“Stop it! Mr. Hodgekiss, leave her alone this minute!” A lantern shone high and bright, making Charlotte wince and close her eyes. The man spluttered and let her go, growling wordlessly in the back of his throat.

“Mrs. Pitt!” It was Tassie’s voice, high with amazement. “Whatever are you doing here? Are you all right? Have you been hurt? You look terribly pale.”

There was no conceivable explanation but the truth. Tassie’s face when she lowered the light looked as innocent as a bowl of milk, eyes wide, dark with concern.

“I followed you,” Charlotte said hesitantly. It sounded foolish now, and dangerous.

But there was no anger in Tassie’s face. “Then you’d better come in.” She did not wait for a reply but turned back into the house, leaving the door open.

Charlotte stood on the pavement in an agony of indecision. Part of her wanted to escape, to run as fast as her feet would carry her away from these cramped, ill-smelling streets, the yawning house in front of her, and whatever blood and madness was inside it. Another part of her knew she could not—she had no idea where she was and might as easily be running further into the slums.

She could wait no longer. It was not a decision to go in so much as a lack of the courage to bolt. She went after Tassie through the door, along a corridor so mean she could touch either side simply by extending her elbows, and up a steep stairway that creaked under her weight. Her uncertain way was lit not by gas but a wavering pool of candlelight carried only just ahead of her. She dared not imagine where she was going.

But the bedroom was desperately ordinary; thin curtains at the windows, sacking on the floor for carpet, a bare wooden table with a pitcher and bowl, and a large marital bed made tidy for the event. In it lay a girl of barely fourteen or fifteen, her face pale and tense with fear, her hair brushed off her forehead and lying in a damp tangle over her shoulders. She was obviously well into labor and in considerable pain.

On the far side of the bed stood a girl a year or two older and bearing so marked a resemblance they must have been sisters. Beside her, sleeves rolled up, ready to assist when the time should come but for now holding her hand, was Mr. Beamish’s curate, Mungo Hare.

A blinding realization came to Charlotte. It was all so obvious there was no question left to ask. Somehow or other Tassie had become involved in helping to deliver the babies of the poor or abandoned. Presumably it was Mungo Hare who had introduced her to this area of need. The idea of the pink and pious Mr. Beamish organizing such a thing was absurd.

And that quick, wholehearted kiss explained itself, and also explained Tassie’s compliant obedience with her grandmother’s command that she should be occupied in good works. Happiness bubbled up inside Charlotte. She was so relieved she wanted to laugh aloud.

But Tassie had no time for such emotions. The girl on the bed was going into another spasm of contractions and was racked almost as much by fear as by the pain. Tassie was busy giving orders to a white-faced youth in a cloth cap, presumably the urchin who had fetched her with the stone against the window, sending him for water and as much linen as he could find that was clean, perhaps to get him out of the room. Had it not been for the girl’s fear and the close possibility of death, Mungo Hare would also have been banished. Childbirth was women’s business.

Charlotte could remember her own two confinements, especially the first. The awe and the pride of carrying had given way to a primitive, mouth-drying fear when the pain came and her body began its relentless cycle which would end only when there was birth—or death. And she had been a grown woman, who loved her husband and wanted her child, and had a mother and sister to attend her after the doctor had done his professional work. This girl was barely more than a child herself—Charlotte had been in the schoolroom at her age—and there was no one to help her but Tassie and a young Highland curate.

She stepped forward and sat on the bed, taking the girl’s other hand.

“Hold on to me,” she said with a smile. “It will only hurt worse if you fight against it. And cry out if you want to—you are entitled to, and no one will mind in the least. It will all be worth it, I promise you.” It was a rash thing to say, and as soon as the words were out her mind half regretted them. Too many children were born dead, and even if it were perfect, how was this girl going to care for it?

“You’re very kind, miss,” the girl said between gasps. “I don’t know why you should take the trouble, I don’t.”

“I’ve had two myself,” Charlotte replied, holding the thin little hand more tightly and feeling it clench with another spasm of pain. “I know just how you feel. But wait till you hold your baby, you’ll forget all about this.” Then again she cursed her runaway tongue. What if the girl could not keep it, what if it went into adoption, or some anonymous orphanage, a charge on the parish to grow up in a workhouse, hungry and unloved?

“Me an’ me sister,” the girl answered her unspoken question, “we’re goin’ ter raise ’im—or ’er. Annie ’as a real good job cleanin’ an like. Mr. ’Are got it for ’er.” She gave Mungo Hare a look of trust so total it was frightening in its intensity.

Then more regular contractions cut out all conversation, and it was time for Tassie to begin her work with words of command and encouragement, and all the towels, and eventually, water. Without ever making the decision to, Charlotte helped. And at half past three in the narrow, shabby room the old miracle was fulfilled, and a perfect child was born. The girl, in a clean nightgown, exhausted, hair wet, but flushed with joy, held him in her arms and asked Charlotte timidly if she would mind if the baby were named Charlie, after her. She said quite honestly that she would count it a very great honor.

At quarter past four, as the summer dawn splashed the sky pearl above the sloping maze of roofs, gray with grime and soot, Charlotte and Tassie left the house and, with the urchin dancing a little jig, were led back to the avenue from which they could find Cardington Crescent and home. Mungo Hare did not come with them; he had said goodbye to Tassie at the corner of the alley. He had other tasks before he reported to Mr. Beamish for the ritual of the morning service.

Charlotte felt like dancing, too, except that her legs would not obey such a hectic call after the extraordinary demands that had already been made upon them. But she found herself singing some snatch of a music hall number because of its sheer joy, and after a moment Tassie joined in. Side by side they marched along the avenue in the white dawn, blood-spattered, hair wild, as the birds in the sycamores welcomed the day.

In Cardington Crescent they found the scullery door still unlocked and crept in past the piles of vegetables and the rows of pans on the wall, up the stone step into the kitchen. Another half hour and the first maids would be down to clean out the stove, renew the blacking, and get the fires going and the ovens ready for breakfast when the cook appeared. Not long after that the housemaids would be up, too, to prepare the dining room and begin the daily round.

“Haven’t you ever run into anyone?” Charlotte whispered.

“No. I have had to hide in the stillroom once or twice.” Tassie looked at her anxiously. “You won’t tell anyone about Mungo, will you? Please.”

“Of course not!” Charlotte was horrified that the possibility could have crossed Tassie’s mind. “What do you think of me that you need to ask? Are you going to marry him?”

Tassie’s chin came up. “Yes! Papa will be furious, but if he won’t give me permission I shall just have to do without. I love Mungo more than anyone else in the world—except Grandmama Vespasia, and William. But that’s different.”

“Good!” Charlotte clasped her arm in a fierce little gesture of companionship. “If I can help, I will.”

“Thank you.” Tassie meant it profoundly, but there was no time for conversation now. They could not afford to linger; they were later than was safe as it was. On tiptoe Charlotte followed her along the corridor, past the housekeeper’s sitting room and the butler’s pantry to the baize door and the main hallway.

They were as far as the foot of the great stairway when they heard the click of the morning room door and Eustace’s voice behind them.

“Mrs. Pitt, your conduct is beyond explanation. You will pack your belongings and leave my house this morning.”

For an instant Charlotte and Tassie both froze, tingling with horror. Then, slowly and in unison, they turned to face him. He stood three or four yards away, just outside the morning room door, a candle in his hand dripping hot wax into its holder. He was wearing his nightshirt with a robe over it, tied round the waist, and a nightcap on his head. It was broad sunrise outside, but in here the velvet curtains had not been drawn and the flame of the candle held high was necessary to see their faces and the dark stains of the afterbirth splashed down their skirts. In spite of the dreadfulness of the moment, Charlotte could not quench in herself the infinitely more important joy, the exultant achievement in new, unblemished life.

Eustace’s face blanched in the yellow candlelight and his eyes opened even wider. “Oh, my God!” he breathed, appalled. “What have you done?”

“Delivered a baby,” Tassie said, with the same smile Charlotte had seen that first night on the staircase.

“You—y-you what!” Eustace was aghast.

“Delivered a baby,” Tassie repeated.

“Don’t be ridiculous! What baby? Whose baby?” he spluttered. “You’ve taken leave of your senses, girl!”

“Her name doesn’t matter,” Tassie answered.

“It matters very much!” Eustace’s voice was rising and growing louder. “She had no business sending for you at this time of night! In fact, she had no business sending for you at all—where is her sense of propriety? An unmarried woman has no ... no call to know about these things. It is quite improper! How can I marry you decently now—now you have been—Who is it, Anastasia? I demand to know! I shall criticize her most severely and have a few very unpleasant words to say to her husband. It is completely irresponsible—” He broke off, as a new thought struck him. “I didn’t hear a carriage.”

“There wasn’t one,” Tassie replied. “We walked. And there isn’t a husband, and her name is Poppy Brown, if that helps.”

“I’ve never heard of her—what do you mean, you walked?—there are no Browns in Cardington Crescent!”

“Are there not?” Tassie was completely indifferent. There was nothing left to be saved by tact, and she was too euphoric, too weary, and too tired of being humiliated to plead.

“No, there are not,” he said with mounting anger. “I know everyone, at least by repute. It is my business to know. What is this woman’s name, Anastasia? And this time you had better tell me the truth, or I shall be obliged to discipline you.”

“As far as I know her name is Poppy Brown,” Tassie repeated. “And I never said she lived in the Crescent. She lives at least three miles from here, maybe more, in one of the slum areas. Her brother came for me, and I couldn’t find the way back there alone if I wanted to.”

He was stunned into silence. They stood in the guttering candlelight at the foot of the stairs like figures in a masque. Somewhere far upstairs there was movement; a junior maid had allowed a door to swing shut unattended. Everything else was so still, the sound reverberated through the vast house.

“The sooner you are married to Jack Radley, the better,” Eustace said at last. “If he’ll have you, which I imagine he will—he needs your money. Let him deal with you. Give you your own children to occupy you!”

Tassie’s face tightened and her hand on the bannister gripped hard. “You can’t do that, Papa, he may have murdered George. You wouldn’t want a murderer in the family. Think of the scandal.”

The blood darkened Eustace’s cheeks and the candle shook in his fingers. “Nonsense!” he said too quickly. “It was Emily who killed George. Any fool can see there is a streak of madness in her family.” He shot a look of loathing at Charlotte, then turned to his daughter again. “You will marry Jack Radley as soon as it can be arranged. Now go to your room!”

“If you do that, people will say I had to marry him because I was with child,” she argued. “It is indecent to marry in haste—especially a man of Jack’s reputation.”

“You deserve to lose your standing!” he said angrily. “You’d lose it a lot further if people knew where you’d been tonight!”

She would not give in. “But I’m your daughter. My reputation will rub off on yours. And anyway, if Emily killed George, Jack is certainly implicated—at least, people will say so.”

“What people?” He had a point, and he knew it. “No one knows of his flirtation except the family, and we are certainly not going to tell anyone. Now, do as I tell you and go to your room.”

But she stood perfectly still, except for a tremor in her hand where it gripped the bannister.

“He may not want to marry me. Emily has far more money, and she has it now. I’ll only get mine when my grandmothers die.”

“I shall see that you are properly provided for,” he countered. “And your husband. Emily doesn’t count. She will be put away quietly somewhere, in a private asylum for the insane, where she can’t kill anyone else.”

Her chin came up and her face was tight and frightened. “I’m going to marry Mungo Hare, whatever you say!”

For an icy moment he was speechless. Then the torrent broke.

“You are not, my girl! You are going to marry whomever I tell you! And I say you will marry Jack Radley. And if he proves unsuitable, or unwilling, then I will find someone else. But you are most certainly not going to marry that penniless young man with no family. What in heaven’s name are you thinking of, child? No daughter of mine marries a curate! An archdeacon perhaps, but not a curate! And that one hasn’t even any prospects. I forbid you to meet or speak to him again! I shall talk to Beamish and see that Hare does not call at this house in future, nor will you have occasion to speak with him in church. And if you do not give me your word on it, then I shall tell Beamish that Hare has made advances towards you, and he will be defrocked. Do you understand me, Anastasia?”

Tassie was so stunned she seemed to sway.

“Now, go to your room and remain there till I tell you you may come out!” Eustace added. He swung round to Charlotte. “And you, Mrs. Pitt, may take your leave as soon as you have packed whatever belongings you have.”

“But first I would like to speak with you, Mr. March.” Charlotte had one card to play, and the decision was made without hesitation. She met his eyes levelly. “We have something to discuss.”

“I—” He teetered on the edge of defying her, his mouth a thin line, his cheeks purple. But his nerve failed. “Go to your room, Anastasia!” he barked furiously.

Charlotte turned to her with a brief smile. “I’ll come and see you in a few minutes,” she said quietly. “Don’t worry.”

Tassie waited a moment, her eyes wide; then, seeing something in Charlotte’s face, she let go of the bannister, turned slowly, and climbed up the stairs and disappeared onto the landing.

“Well?” Eustace demanded, but his voice had a tremor, and the belligerence in his face was artificial.

Charlotte debated for an instant whether to try subtlety or to be so direct he could not possibly mistake her. She knew her limitations, and chose the latter.

“I think you should allow Tassie to continue with her work to help the poor,” she said, as calmly as she could, “and marry Mr. Hare as soon as it can be arranged without seeming hasty and causing unkind remarks.”

“Out of the question.” He shook his head. “Quite out of the question. He has no money, no family, and no prospects.”

She did not bother to argue Mungo Hare’s virtues; they would weigh little with Eustace. She struck at him where he was vulnerable.

“If you do not,” she said slowly and clearly, meeting his eyes, “I shall see that your affair with your son’s wife becomes public property. So far it is only with the police, and although it is disgusting, it is not a crime. But if Society were aware of it, your position would be untenable. Nearly everyone will turn a blind eye to a little discreet philandering, but seducing your son’s wife in your own house—over Christmas! And then continuing to force yourself on her—”

“Stop it!” The cry was dragged out of him. “Stop it!”

“The queen would not approve,” she went on mercilessly. “She is rather a prudish old lady, with an obsession about virtue, especially marital virtue and family life. There would be no peerage for you if she knew this. In fact, you would be wiped off every guest list in London.”

“All right!” The surrender was strangled in his throat, his eyes beseeching. “All right! She can marry the bloody curate! For God’s sake don’t tell anyone about Sybilla! I didn’t kill her—or George. I swear it!”

“Possibly.” She would give him nothing. “The police have the diary, and as long as you are guilty of no crime against the law, there is no reason why they should ever make it known. I shall ask my husband to destroy it—after the murder is solved. For William’s sake, not yours.”

He swallowed hard and spoke with difficulty, hating every word. “Do you give me your word?”

“I just did. Now, if you’ll excuse me I would like to go to bed; it has been a very long and arduous night. And I would like to tell Tassie the good news. She will be very happy. I think she loves Mr. Hare very much. An excellent choice. I shall not see you at breakfast—I think I will have it in bed, if you will be so kind as to order it for me. But I’ll see you at luncheon, and dinner.”

He made a stifled sound that she took for assent.

“Good night, Mr. March.”

“Ah—aaah!” he groaned.