Death in the Devil's Acre

6

THE MURDER OF BERTRAM ASTLEY was on the front pages of all the newspapers. The public was outraged. Under the shrill cries of horror, of the offense to decency, beneath even the compassion, there was a hard, real feeling of fear, close and personal. If a man like Astley could be so obscenely murdered for no apparent reason, who was safe in the streets?

Of course it was not said openly. There were letters to the editor requiring more action from the police, more efficiency, men of better discipline and intelligence. There was a demand to know whose errors were being hidden by this silence. Was there corruption in high places that these monstrous crimes were still unsolved? One elderly gentleman even suggested that the Devil’s Acre be burned to the ground and all its denizens transported to Australia forthwith.

Charlotte put down the paper and tried to clear the echoes of hysteria from her mind, to think what kind of man Bertram Astley might have been. Everything she had read was filtered by the rosy gloss of emotion that allowed no evil thought of the dead. Simplicity is so much easier, grand sweeps of feeling that are full of dramatic blacks and whites: Max was evil, Astley an innocent victim; the police either fiddled or, worse, were corrupt. Either way, society itself was in peril.

And Pitt was working from before dawn till long after dark. When he came home, more often than not he was too tired to speak. But where did one even begin to look for a random lunatic?

She must help. Of course she could not tell him; he had specifically forbidden her to meddle in this affair. But that was before Bertram Astley, when it had involved only people quite outside her social knowledge. Now things were different. Surely Emily would know the Astleys, or someone of their acquaintance through whom an introduction might be scraped. She would have to be very discreet; if Pitt found out before she achieved something significantly helpful, he would be furious.

“Gracie,” she called cheerfully. Gracie must not even guess. With the best will in the world, the girl was totally transparent.

“Yes, ma’am?” Gracie’s head appeared around the door, her eyebrows raised. Her glance fell to the newspaper. “Ooo—isn’t it terrible, ma’am, there’s bin another one! A real gentleman this time, with a proper title an’ all! I don’t know wot the world’s comin’ to, I don’t.”

“Well, perhaps that’s just as well,” Charlotte said briskly. “I never did approve much of ‘second sight.’ Smacks of superstition to me, and only causes a lot of trouble.”

Gracie was nonplussed, as she was intended to be. “Ma’am?”

“Don’t dwell on it, Gracie.” Charlotte stood up. “It’s all miles from here, and doesn’t have anything to do with anyone we know.” She passed her the paper. “Here, use it to light the fire in the parlor later.”

“But there’s the master, ma’am!” Gracie protested.

“Pardon?”

“’E ’as to do with it, poor man! ’E looked proper froze yesterdy night w’en ’e came ’ome, an’ I think ’e still don’t know as ’oo done it any more’n we do! Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, if I’m bein’ impertinent.” A trace of anxiety passed over her face. “But I reckon as ’e’s chasin’ the forces o’ evil!”

“Stuff and nonsense! It’s a lunatic. Now stop thinking about it, put the newspaper on the back of the fire, and get on with your work. I’m going to order myself a new dress. I’m going for a fitting this morning.”

“Ooh!” Gracie’s eyes lit up immediately. A new dress was more fun than a murder, second hand. “What color, ma’am? Are you going to ’ave it that new line down the front that’s in the pictures in the London Illustrated?”

“It’s too fashionable.” Charlotte bought what she could afford. “I don’t like following everyone else as if I were a sheep without a mind of my own.”

“Quite right, ma’am,” Gracie said. She also had an excellent mind for the practical. “Get a good color, I always says, and the rest’ll take care of itself, as long as you smiles at people, polite like, but not so friendly as to lead ’em on.”

“Excellent advice.” Charlotte nodded. “But I shall take a little look and see what other people are wearing all the same, so I may not be back for luncheon.”

“Yes, ma’am. Never hurry a new dress.”

Charlotte arrived at Emily’s house to find her sister out at the dressmaker’s herself, and was obliged to wait nearly an hour for her to return.

“How on earth can you go visiting seamstresses on a morning like this?” she demanded as soon as Emily was in the room. “For goodness’ sake, don’t you read the newspapers?”

Emily stopped short; then her face tightened. “You mean about Bertie Astley? Charlotte, there is nothing we can do! Thomas already told you not to meddle.”

“That was before, when it only concerned pimps and that odd doctor. Now it has struck one of our own social circle!”

“You mean my social circle!” Emily closed the door and came over to stand in front of the fire. “Actually I don’t know the Astleys, but I don’t see what good it would do if I did.”

“Oh, don’t be so stupid!” Charlotte lost her patience. “What do you suppose Bertie Astley was doing in the Devil’s Acre in the middle of the night?”

“Visiting a house of pleasure.”

“You mean a whorehouse!”

Emily winced. “Don’t be so coarse, Charlotte. You are beginning to lose your refinement. Thomas is right. You shouldn’t meddle in this affair—it is not our sort of case at all.”

“Not even if Bertie Astley knew Max, and they were involved in something together—with Dr. Pinchin?” Charlotte dangled the most tempting bait she could think of: a really first-class scandal.

Emily was silent for a moment. Fashion could become extremely tedious, removed from anything that really mattered. Who cared whether someone had a subtler color or a lower neckline? Even gossip at this time of the year was distinctly jaded.

“That would be different,” she said. “And very serious. It would mean it was not a lunatic at all, but someone perfectly sane, and very dreadful.”

“Quite.”

Emily shivered as her ideas changed altogether. “Where should we start?”

That was less easy. The practical possibilities open to them were very few. “The Astleys,” Charlotte decided after a moment. “There isn’t anywhere else. We might be able to discover exactly why he was in the Acre, and if he knew either Max or Dr. Pinchin.”

“What does Thomas say?”

Charlotte was perfectly honest. “He is too tired to say anything much. He hardly ever tells me about this case, just the odd word. There’s been a lot of public outcry, and the police are being accused of inefficiency, even corruption.”

That removed the last shred of reluctant conscience from Emily’s mind. “Then we must help. I don’t know the Astleys personally, but I do know he was paying considerable attention to May Woolmer. Everyone has been wondering if she would catch him. She is this Season’s newest beauty. Not my taste, actually. Very handsome, I suppose, in a creamy sort of way, like an extremely well-bred dairymaid, and about as interesting.”

“Oh dear!” Charlotte pictured something in frills, carrying a bucket.

“Oh, there’s nothing whatsoever wrong with her.” Emily backtracked a step or two. “But that in itself is bound to grow tiresome in time. She is as predictable as a jug of milk.”

“Whatever did Bertie Astley want to marry her for? Has she money? Or influence?” Charlotte inquired hopefully.

“None at all. But her manners are perfect, and she is certainly extremely agreeable. And all that rich white flesh is attractive to some men.”

Considering Emily’s slender shoulders and slight bosom, Charlotte forbore from making comment on the subject. Instead she recalled a fragment of a remark Pitt had made when he was too tired to guard his tongue. “Thomas says that Max even had women of good breeding and family working for him sometimes.”

“Good God!” Emily’s chin dropped in incredulity. “You mean for money—with ... Oh, no!”

“Apparently.”

Amazement superseded disbelief, and then a reluctant thrill of horror. “Charlotte, are you sure?”

“I’m sure that’s what Thomas said.”

“But whatever kind of well-bred woman would need money so badly she could think of ... I simply cannot imagine it!”

“Not out of need. Married women, out of boredom, or frustration—the way men gamble with more money than they can afford to lose, or drive crazy races with a four-in-hand and get themselves half killed when they turn over.”

“Did he keep books—Max?”

“I don’t know, and I haven’t thought it wise to ask Thomas yet. But, Emily, if we really tried, surely we could discover who some of these women might be? Perhaps one of them killed Max because he was blackmailing her, wouldn’t let her go. That would be a real reason worth killing for.”

Emily pursed her mouth doubtfully. “But what about Dr. Pinchin?”

“Brothels must need doctors sometimes, mustn’t they? Maybe he was in partnership with Max. Perhaps he put up the money, or found the women through his practice. He would be in a position to know.”

“And Bertie Astley?”

“Maybe he was a customer and recognized her. That would account for why he was not so badly—hurt—”

“That doesn’t make sense. If it was her husband who killed them, he would hate Bertie just as much!”

“Well, maybe it wasn’t. But someone did!”

“Charlotte, we shouldn’t—” Emily let out a long breath. “I’ve met May Woolmer two or three times. We could go and convey our condolences to her. I’ve got black accessories you can borrow. We’ve got to start somewhere. We’ll go this afternoon. What are you going to tell Thomas? You’re a terrible liar—you always say too much and end up by giving yourself away.”

“I told Gracie I was going to the dressmaker.”

Emily grunted and gave her a suspicious look. “Then I suppose I had better give you a dress—for your alibi!”

“Thank you,” Charlotte said graciously. “That is very generous of you. I’d like a red one.”

“Would you indeed!”

Mrs. Woolmer turned over the gold-embossed card and examined it carefully. It was of excellent quality, discreet. And there was no denying the title, Viscountess Ashworth.

“Who is she, Mama?” May inquired hopefully. She was finding this state of limbo exceedingly tiresome. No one yet seemed sure whether Bertie had been the victim or an offender who deserved whatever end he met. May herself, therefore, could not be sure what attitude to adopt, and meeting people in the meantime was testing all her abilities. On the other hand, not meeting people was like being imprisoned.

“I have no idea,” Mrs. Woolmer replied with a frown between her carefully plucked brows. She was wearing purple again, a good choice for those who were not quite certain whether they were in mourning or not. May wore black because she looked utterly dazzling in it; she glowed like warm alabaster in sunlight.

The parlormaid dropped a curtsy. “If you please, ma’am, she is most soberly dressed, ma’am, an’ she came in a carriage with a coat of arms on the side, and two footmen, ma’am, in livery. An’ she ’as ’er sister with ’er, very proper like. An’ she looks like she would be a lady, too, but she didn’t give me any card.”

Mrs. Woolmer made a rapid decision. Social behavior must be judged to a nicety if one were to climb to the heights. Nature had given her one great advantage in the most beautiful daughter of the Season. It would be ungracious to squander it with a clumsy gesture now.

She smiled at the maid. “Please invite Lady Ashworth and her sister to come in, Marigold, and then tell cook to prepare refreshments—tea, and the best cakes and delicacies—and bring them to us.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Marigold withdrew to do as she was bidden.

As soon as Emily and Charlotte came in, Mrs. Woolmer was reassured. Obviously the Viscountess Ashworth was a lady; one had but to observe the quality and discretion of her clothes. Only the nobility mixed good taste with the spending of money in quite such a way.

May was also delighted. They were young enough to gossip a little, and perhaps before too long even extend her an invitation. A private dinner would not be unseemly; after all, she had not actually been betrothed to Bertie! The more she thought about it, the more she considered it would be best to maintain a gentle and dignified silence upon the whole affair. Let people interpret that as they wished; to say nothing was always safer than to commit oneself. And a great many men preferred women without too many opinions of their own. And—rather more to the point in the marriage stakes—their mothers always approved. Silence and a sweet smile were taken as signs of an obedient nature, a thing much to be desired in a daughter-in-law.

Lady Ashworth was dressed in the height of fashion, in a subdued color that made her look all the more elegant. Her sister was far less fashionable, but undeniably handsome. Indeed her face was quite individual; there was a warmth in it May found herself drawn to.

“My dear.” Lady Ashworth came forward, her hands outstretched, and took May’s before she could readily think of anything to say. “I am so sorry. I had to come and assure you of my sympathy in your distress.”

May had been distressed, but not as Lady Ashworth supposed. She had not been especially fond of Bertie. In fact, she greatly preferred Beau Astley; he was better-looking and a good deal more fun. But one had to be practical. He had been a younger son with very few prospects, and he would have had even fewer when Bertie married and there was a new mistress in Astley House.

She re-collected herself and smiled sadly. “Thank you, Lady Ashworth, that is most sensitive of you. I can still hardly believe that anyone I knew could meet with such a dreadful fate.”

Mrs. Woolmer cast her a warning glance. She must not say anything to link herself irretrievably with the Astleys. They might turn out to have possessed heaven knew what disgusting habits! For all the newspapers’ genteelisms, one knew where he had been found. But May was perfectly aware of all the pitfalls and had no intention of falling into any of them.

Lady Ashworth introduced her sister Mrs. Pitt, and the ladies accepted seats graciously. “Life can give us some cruel surprises,” Emily observed, her expression one of wise sorrow. “They can be very hard to bear.” She lowered her head, apparently overcome with her own thoughts.

May felt compelled to say something; good manners demanded it. “Indeed. I—I realize now how little I knew him. I had never imagined such a ...” She stopped because there was no satisfactory conclusion to that sentence. She looked frankly at Lady Ashworth’s sister Mrs. Pitt. “I believe I must be most lamentably innocent. I fear the less charitable might be laughing at me already.”

“The envious,” Mrs. Pitt corrected generously. “And they will always be there. The only way to avoid them is to fail where they may see it and be satisfied. I assure you, no person of worth will feel anything but understanding for you. It is a situation in which any woman might find herself.”

May had a fluttering, nervous feeling that Mrs. Pitt was referring to her indecision about Beau Astley with a very acute perception, and not at all to her grief for Bertie. It was uncomfortable to have her motives so thoroughly perceived. She looked at Lady Ashworth and saw the same frank understanding in her clear blue eyes. She decided at once to enlist them as allies. May was blessed with one virtue of perspicacity; she knew precisely whom she could deceive and whom she could not.

She let out a sigh and smiled disarmingly. “What a relief it is to know someone who really does understand. So many people speak kindly, but they think only of a natural grief at losing a friend.”

Mrs. Woolmer fidgeted, twisting her hands in her lap. She did not like the turn of this conversation, but could not think how to alter it without displaying marked discourtesy.

“Quite.” Lady Ashworth agreed with a little nod, continuing May’s thought. “One imagines one knows people, and then something like this occurs! But what can one do? If one is introduced by respectable acquaintances, that is all anyone requires. My husband and I were astonished.” She took a deep breath. “Of course I do not know Sir Beau at all—”

But May was not to be so easily trapped.

“He appears to be extremely pleasant,” she replied without emotion. She forced Beau’s face from her mind— the laughter, the soft voice, memories of dancing, lights, music, whirling feet, his arms about her. “Sir Bertram always behaved himself impeccably in my company,” she finished levelly.

“Of course!” Mrs. Woolmer said, a shade too quickly.

“I’m sure.” Lady Ashworth brushed her fingers delicately over her skirt. “But if you will forgive me saying so, my dear, men have been known to behave very rashly indeed when they fall in love. And even brothers have learned to hate one another over a beautiful woman.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Woolmer’s hand flew to her mouth and stifled an exclamation in language far less than genteel.

May felt distinctly uncomfortable. Of course she was aware that many men had desired her. Surely that was what the Season was for? But so far she had considered the emotions superficial, all a part of the exquisite charade where the winners retired with agreeable husbands and with futures assured both socially and financially. The losers retreated to consider next year’s tactics. May had always known her strengths and her weaknesses, and how best to deploy them. She had every intention of being a winner, and envy was to be expected—but not hatred, and certainly not the kind of passion that breeds murder.

“I think you flatter me, Lady Ashworth,” she said carefully. “I have given no one cause for such feelings.” Perhaps it would be better to change the subject, turn Lady Ashworth’s curious eyes onto something even more shocking. “I do not have the amorous skill of many of the ladies with”—she gave a tiny smile—“shall we say ‘experience’? I am loath to repeat rumor, but it is so persistent that in all common sense I cannot believe it is entirely false. There are some ladies of perfectly good family who behave like women of pleasure. No doubt they have the art to inflame the sort of dreadful emotions you are speaking of.”

It burst like a bombshell, as was intended.

“Nonsense!” Mrs. Woolmer choked on her indrawn breath. “You cannot possibly know of such a thing! Women of pleasure indeed! I will thank you to hold your tongue.”

Lady Ashworth’s head came up, her eyes wide. But surprisingly it was Mrs. Pitt who came to May’s rescue. “It is most distressing,” she agreed, dropping her voice to a confidential tone. “But I also have heard of such things. And I have to admit that my source was irreproachable. It makes me wonder how ever to judge where to pursue acquaintances, and where one dare not! I am sure you must have had the same doubts as I. I feel guilty even for suspecting people who are probably as innocent as the day, and yet I would be appalled to find myself, through good nature and an excess of gullibility, in a situation from which I could not retreat with my reputation unblemished—not to think of things far worse!”

Lady Ashworth seemed to be in the grip of some overpowering emotion. She coughed furiously and covered her face with her handkerchief. Her shoulders shook. Her skin was pink to the very roots of her hair. Fortunately, at that moment the maid returned with tea and other refreshments, and they were able to revive Lady Ashworth. Her face was flushed but she was apparently otherwise in control of herself.

But Mrs. Pitt was quite right. One simply could not afford to associate with women who were even suspected of such behavior. May racked her thoughts to know which of her acquaintances might be involved. Several names came to mind, and she determined to avoid them on every possible occasion. Perhaps she should, in all kindness, warn Mrs. Pitt?

“Are you acquainted with Lavinia Hawkesley?” she inquired.

Lady Ashworth’s eyes widened. There was no need for indelicate explanations. May blandly mentioned a few other names, and then they discussed fashion and current romances for a pleasant half hour, all undershot with a frisson of scandal. Mrs. Woolmer tried to guide the conversation toward the Ashworths’ acquaintance with eligible young men, and met with no success whatsoever.

At four o’clock, the parlormaid opened the door and asked if the ladies would receive Mr. Alan Ross, who had called to offer his family’s sympathies.

Lady Ashworth jumped to her feet, seizing Mrs. Pitt by the hand. “Come, Charlotte, we really must not monopolize the whole afternoon.” She turned to May. “I fear we have enjoyed your company so much we have forgotten our manners. If you will permit us to take our leave before Mr. Ross arrives, we will not make him feel uncomfortable by appearing to avoid him.”

Mrs. Woolmer was startled. “Of course, if—if that is what you wish. Marigold, have Mr. Ross wait in the morning room for a moment, if you please.”

Marigold closed the door behind her.

Lady Ashworth bent to May with a confidential whisper. “My sister and I were once acquainted with Mr. Ross’s family during a period of tragedy which must be most distressing to him. I think it would be a kindness, my dear, if you were not to mention our names to him. I’m sure you understand?”

May did not understand at all, but she was perfectly capable of taking a hint. “Of course. You will merely be two ladies who have called by in friendship. I appreciate your sensitivity, and I hope I shall have the good fortune to meet you again in more fortunate circumstances.”

“I am sure of it,” Lady Ashworth said confidently, with the slightest of nods.

May understood; it was all she wished.

Outside in the street, Charlotte turned on Emily. “What are you thinking of? Surely it would have been to our advantage to meet with Alan Ross again? Max may have used his old connections to find these women!”

“I know that!” Emily exclaimed. “But not in there. He won’t be long—we can wait out here for him.”

“It’s freezing! Why on earth should we stand around here? He’ll know we are forcing an acquaintance if—”

“Oh, don’t be so silly. William!” She waved her hand at the coachman. “Find something wrong with one of the horses—keep yourself occupied until Mr. Ross comes out of the house.”

“Yes, m’lady.” William obediently bent and ran his hand down the near horse’s leg, and began to examine it.

Charlotte shivered as the wind cut through her coat. “Why on earth couldn’t we simply have stayed in there and met him?” she demanded, glaring at Emily.

“I always thought General Balantyne was very fond of you.” Emily appeared to ignore the remark.

Charlotte had liked to think so, too. The memory brought a pleasant glow, a tinge of excitement. She did not argue.

“Christina moves in just the right circle to know the sort of women who might be used by Max,” Emily continued. “She could be of great assistance.”

“Christina Ross wouldn’t assist us across the street if we were blind!” Charlotte remembered Callander Square vividly. “The most likely assistance she could give me would be into the nearest ditch!”

“Which is why we must pursue the general instead,” Emily said impatiently. “If you conduct yourself properly, he will help you to anything you like! Now be quiet. Mr. Ross is coming out. I knew he wouldn’t be long.”

As Alan Ross approached, Emily smiled dazzlingly at him.

He smiled back and raised his hat a little uncertainly. Then his eyes moved to Charlotte and his face eased in recognition.

“Miss Ellison? How charming to see you again. I hope you are well. Do you have trouble with your carriage? May I take you somewhere?”

“Thank you, I am sure it is nothing serious,” Charlotte answered quickly. “Do you recall Mr. Ross, Emily? My sister, Lady Ashworth—” She wanted to tell him delicately that she was Mrs. Pitt. During the Callander Square murders, she had found a position in the Balantyne house by pretending she was a single woman in need of respectable work. “Mr. Ross—”

Emily cut in, offering her hand to Alan Ross. “Of course I remember Mr. Ross. Please give my best wishes to Mrs. Ross. I confess it is quite some time since I have seen her. One becomes so busy with people one is obliged by courtesy to visit that one misses those one is genuinely fond of. She is such an entertaining person. I look forward to meeting her again.”

Emily detested Christina and always had. Her smile did not waver a fraction. “And Charlotte has spoken of her frequently. We really must call upon her. I hope she will forgive us for our neglect.”

“I am sure she will be delighted to see you.” He gave the only possible answer he could.

Emily smiled as if equally charmed by the prospect. “Then please tell her that Lady Ashworth and Miss Ellison will call upon her next Tuesday, if she receives upon that day?”

“I am sure she will. But why do you not come to dine? That would be far pleasanter. It will be only a small gathering, but if Lord Ashworth is not engaged—?”

“I am sure he is not.” Emily accepted with alacrity. She would make sure that George was not. Other engagements would have to be dispensed with.

He bowed slightly. “Then I shall see that invitations are sent. If you are sure I can be of no assistance?” He looked at William, now standing to attention by the horse’s head.

“I am sure we shall be perfectly all right,” Emily said.

“Then I bid you good day, Lady Ashworth, Miss Ellison.” He met Charlotte’s eyes for a moment, smiled, then turned and walked back along the pavement to his own carriage.

Emily accepted William’s assistance into the carriage, and Charlotte followed after her, landing in a bundle.

“What on earth is the matter with you?” she said furiously. “Why did you let him go on thinking I am Miss Ellison? I hardly need a job in Christina’s household!”

Emily yanked her skirt free from where Charlotte was sitting on it. “We’ll hardly be in a position to discover much if they know you are married to a policeman!” she pointed out. “Let alone the very policeman who is investigating the murders. Added to which, it will do no harm for the general to see you as still unmarried.”

“What are you—” Charlotte began, then stopped short. There was considerable good sense in what Emily was saying. People like Christina Balantyne did not dine with policemen’s wives! If they knew she and Emily were bent on inquiring into murder, they would never even get through the front door.

After all, they had a certain moral duty to discover as much as they could—it was every person’s duty. And, in truth, they had proved unusually skilled in the past!

“Yes,” she said meekly. “Yes, I suppose you are quite right, Emily.”

If she and Emily were to investigate effectively, they must have all the knowledge available. But to get it from Pitt was no easy matter. So far, he had spoken of no further discovery. It seemed he was trudging day after day through the squalor of the Acre, pursuing a word here, a suggestion there. But if he was any nearer find- ing a connection between Max, Dr. Pinchin, and Bertie Astley, he had not told Charlotte of it.

“Thomas?” she began softly.

He opened his eyes and looked at her. It was late; he was half asleep by the fire in the parlor. She had chosen her time with care, and tried to sound casual. “Have you learned anything more about Max?”

“I know everything there is to know about Max,” he replied, sliding a little farther down in his chair, looking at her through his eyelashes. “Except who his clients were, who his women were, and who killed him.”

“Oh.” She was not sure how to pursue it. “That means he kept no sort of record. Or else it was taken?”

“He was killed in the street,” he pointed out. “Unless it was his house manager who did it, there would be no chance to look for papers. Anyway, according to all I can find out, there were none. He kept names in his head, and all business was strictly cash.”

No records! “Then how could he blackmail anyone?” she asked curiously.

“I don’t know that he did.” He moved his feet off the fender; it was getting too hot. “But he might have had knowledge enough to ruin anyone’s reputation. Proof is not necessary. Word of mouth in the right place, substantiated by a few names and places, would do excellently. Suspicion alone can destroy. But the motive could just as easily have been professional rivalry. He was taking other people’s business. Either way, it is none of your affair. This isn’t a case where an amateur can help.”

She met his gaze and suddenly felt a great deal less sure of herself. “Oh, yes, of course,” she said. After all, she was not really investigating! It was only a matter of keeping her ears open for any odd piece of information that might prove relevant. “But it is only natural I should be interested, isn’t it?” she said reasonably.

Charlotte was something less than honest over the dinner invitation to the Rosses’ on Tuesday. Pitt was working, as she had trusted he would be. She mentioned that they had been invited to dine with Emily and George, and would he mind very much if she went, even though he was unable to? She knew he would not refuse her. After all, he had not been able to take her anywhere himself, or even to offer her much companionship, since the case began. And so far as it went, what she said was true; she would be with Emily and George! Even if it was not in their home, as she allowed Pitt to presume.

Emily lent her a gown, as usual, and Charlotte dressed for the occasion at Paragon Walk, with Emily’s maid to dress her hair. She felt not the least qualm about that, for the whole idea had been engineered by Emily’s connivance, with Alan Ross!

The gown was of apricot silk, with the most delicate lace a shade or two deeper, and appeared to be quite new. In fact, it crossed her mind to wonder if Emily had obtained it for the purpose. It was a color Emily herself should never have worn, with her fair hair and clear blue eyes. The shade was ideal for a warmer complexion and darker, heavier hair with gleams of red in it.

She felt a sudden gratitude for Emily’s generosity, both in providing the gown, which flattered her so much, and for doing it in such a discreet manner. She decided to say nothing, and thus let the gift reach the fullest measure. Instead she swept down the stairs from the spare dressing room like a duchess entering her own ballroom, and swirled to a grand curtsy in the hallway at Emily’s feet. The sense of excitement inside her was as vivid as the light on the chandeliers.

“Your dress is perfect,” she said, rising with a little less grace than she had intended. “I feel fit to dazzle everyone and make Christina quite sickly with envy! Thank you very much.”

Emily was in the palest aquamarine, with diamonds at her ears and throat sparkling like sunlight upon clear water. They were as different as could be, which of course had been the intention—although possibly Emily had not expected Charlotte to look quite so splendid. But if she hadn’t, she rapidly adjusted her thought, and smiled back with unclouded approval.

“Now, just remember not to say anything too candid,” she warned. “Society adores mirrors to its face and its attire, but has no love whatsoever for a reflection of its morals or its soul. I shall be obliged if you bear that in mind before you express your opinions!”

“Yes, Emily.” She did owe her something for the dress.

Emily had obviously taken some care in forewarning George of the purpose of their visit. He had agreed to accompany them, and to refrain from enlightening their hosts about Charlotte’s marriage and thus her current social status, although Charlotte did not know if Emily had also told him the reason for this!

Christina Ross received them distinctly coolly. Obviously the invitation had come from her husband, and she had been obliged to go along with it, since it could hardly be withdrawn. “How kind of you to come, Lord Ashworth, Lady Ashworth,” she said, with a very small smile.

George bowed and passed some civil remark, vaguely complimentary.

“And Miss Ellison.” Christina’s eyes swept over Charlotte’s gown with slight surprise. She allowed it to show, as a delicate insult to what she considered to be Charlotte’s station, and therefore the unsuitability of the gown—let alone how she might have come by it! “I hope you are in good health?” There was a lift in her voice, which was wasted. Charlotte too obviously glowed with an abundance of well-being of every sort.

Christina abandoned the inquiry without waiting for an answer, and indicated where they were welcome to seat themselves.

George did not believe that they should interfere in the solving of the crimes, and he had in fact barely known Bertie Astley. But he was generally good-natured, as long as he was not unduly criticized or robbed of his habitual pleasures. Emily had proved an excellent wife. She was neither extravagant nor indiscreet, she rarely lost her temper, she never sulked or rebuffed him, and she was far too subtle in her dealings with him to need to nag.

He was aware, in afterthought, of having changed one or two of his amusements—maybe even three or four—in order to please her. But it had proved less painful than he had anticipated, and one had to be prepared to make some adjustments. He therefore did not really object to humoring her with regard to cultivating Christina Ross, if she felt it was useful. Of course he knew quite well it was absolutely pointless, but if it entertained her, what matter? And he could see no reason why it should not be pleasant.

Charlotte he had never understood, nor had he tried to. He liked her well enough; in fact, to be honest, he even liked Pitt!

Accordingly, he put himself out to be charming to Christina and, without any great effort, was devastatingly effective. His face was handsome, especially his eyes, and generations of privilege and money had given him an assurance so easy it required no attention at all. He could sit and stare at Christina with appreciation, and flatter her merely by giving her his undivided concern.

There was little enough time, and Emily wasted none of it, but began immediately on the subject that had brought her. “It is so pleasant to see you again,” she said to Alan Ross, with a smile. “George was delighted when I gave him your invitation. We spend so much time with those in society who are not of the most attractive. I confess, I am not as clever at judging people as I had imagined I was. I have been somewhat naive, and have found myself in the company of persons I would not have chosen had I been wiser. But one so often learns these things too late. Even now I do not fully understand.” She dropped her voice as if imparting a confidence. “But I have heard whispers that some ladies of what one would have thought to be impeccable family have been behaving in ways too appalling to speak of!”

“Indeed?” A shadow crossed Alan Ross’s face, so brief Charlotte was not sure if she had imagined it, but it left her with an impression of pain. Had the unintended clumsiness of Emily’s remark disturbed some memory of the past? The murder in Callander Square?

“Emily,” she said quickly. “Perhaps it is a subject indelicate to discuss!”

Emily gave her a blue stare of amazement, then turned back quickly to Alan Ross. “I do hope I have not offended you by speaking my feelings too candidly?” She looked wounded, anxious, but underneath the wide swirls of her skirt she gave Charlotte a sharp kick. Charlotte winced, but was obliged to keep her face expressionless.

“Of course not!” Ross said with a slight movement of his hand, the smallest gesture of dismissal—it was too trivial to require more. “I quite agree with you. There is only one thing more boring and more unpleasant than debauchery, and that is to hear of it interminably and at second hand.” He smiled very slightly, and Charlotte could only guess at the thoughts that had prompted the remark.

“How I agree with you!” Emily’s foot gave Charlotte a warning tap—painful, since it caught exactly the spot where she had landed the first kick. “I find it most embarrassing when women speak of such things. I hardly know what to say.”

Charlotte moved her feet discreetly out of Emily’s reach. “And that is a mark of how deeply she is affected,” she put in. “It quite robs her of a response—and what a remarkable instance that is you may judge!”

Emily’s foot came out sharply and met only piles of skirt. She looked at Charlotte with acute suspicion out of the corner of her eye. Charlotte smiled ravishingly at Alan Ross.

At that moment the door opened and the footman ushered in General Balantyne and Lady Augusta. George and Alan Ross both rose to their feet, and the rest of the party remained perfectly still. Balantyne stared at Charlotte until she could feel the color burn in her face. She wished desperately that Emily had not lied and introduced her as Miss Ellison.

Christina broke the pattern. She stood up and sailed forward, arms stretched in a theatrical gesture stopping just short of embracing her father. “Papa, how delightful to see you!” She half turned and held out a cool cheek to Lady Augusta. “Mama! You know Lord Ashworth, of course.”

Formal acknowledgments were made, George bowing gracefully.

“And Lady Ashworth.” Her voice dropped to a tone distinctly chillier.

Emily had risen, as was fitting for a younger woman to an elder when they both possessed titles. Again the acknowledgments were made.

Christina turned at last to Charlotte, also, of course, now standing. “And perhaps you recall Miss Ellison, who was so kind as to assist Papa with some clerical work a few years ago?”

“Indeed.” Augusta did not wish to be reminded of that time, or of anything to do with it. “Good evening, Miss Ellison.” Her incomprehension that Charlotte should be included in the company at all clearly showed.

“Good evening, Lady Augusta.” Suddenly, Charlotte’s guilt vanished, and she stared back as coldly as she imagined Augusta herself might have if confronted with a débutante who did not know her place.

There was a faint tinge of color on the general’s high cheekbones. “Good evening, Miss Ellison.” He caught something in his throat and coughed. “How pleasant to see you again. I was thinking of you only the other day—” He stopped. “That is—a certain event brought you to mind.”

“I have remembered you often.” Charlotte wanted to rescue him, and what she said was almost true. She never heard or read of any military event without in one way or other associating it with him.

Christina’s raised eyebrows showed her amazement. “Oh dear! I had no notion we had become so fixed in your mind, Miss Ellison—or perhaps you are referring only to Papa?”

Charlotte wanted to hurt her. “The circumstances of our meeting were not common enough in my life for me to forget anything of them,” she said, meeting Christina’s eyes icily. She saw Christina pale at the memory of murder. “But of course I learned to admire the general very much as I became acquainted with his memoirs. I am sure, knowing him so much better, you must share my regard.”

Christina’s face tightened. “Naturally—but then he is my father! That is an entirely different thing—Miss Ellison.”

The color deepened in Balantyne’s face, but he seemed to find nothing to say.

“You never read your father’s military papers, my dear.” It was Alan Ross who rescued them. “A daughter’s affection is quite a different emotion from the respect of someone quite impartial.”

The pink drained out of Balantyne’s cheeks and he turned away quickly. “Of course it is,” he said with some tartness. “I cannot imagine you meant that as it sounded, Christina. Miss Ellison was merely being courteous.” He did not look at Charlotte, but settled himself talking instead to George.

Emily engaged herself with Christina, leaving Charlotte to try to balance an awkward conversation with Alan Ross and Lady Augusta. She was immensely relieved when dinner was announced.

The table was rich, and Charlotte noticed Emily looking it over and probably adding up what she judged it to have cost. Emily knew the quality of crystal, silver, and napery to a nicety, and she was also precisely aware of what a cook was worth. Charlotte caught her eye a few moments after they had sat down, and from the slight incline of one fair brow, she gathered that in Emily’s opinion Christina was being extravagant.

The first course was served, and the general conversation turned to the kind of polite trivia appropriate to the importance of taking the first edge from appetite, and at the same time maintaining a degree of elegance. Charlotte took no part in it; she was not acquainted with the people referred to, and could not comment upon the likelihood of one person marrying another, or what a disaster it would or would not be.

She found her gaze straying toward General Balantyne, the only other person uninvolved, either from ignorance or lack of interest. She was a little discomforted to find him watching her, in spite of the fact that Christina was speaking with great animation.

There was a ripple of laughter around the table, and suddenly Christina became aware that her wit had left two of the company untouched. She looked directly at Charlotte, pulling a little face.

“Oh, I am so sorry, Miss Ellison. Of course I forgot you cannot know Miss Fairgood, or the Duke’s grandson. How very unkind of me. You must feel so left out. Do please forgive me!”

Nothing she might have said would be better calculated to make Charlotte’s exclusion more obvious. The conversation was tedious and Charlotte had not cared before, but now she felt her face burning with self-consciousness. She remained silent, because if she spoke she would be rude and thus give Christina yet another victory.

“I do not know Miss Fairgood either.” Balantyne picked up his glass. “I cannot say that I have been aware of the loss. And I am as indifferent as Miss Ellison as to whom the Duke’s grandson should marry. However,” he turned to Charlotte, “I have recently come upon some letters of a soldier who served in the Peninsular War. I think you might find them interesting, and most encouraging when one realizes how far we have progressed since then. I remember your admiration for Miss Nightingale’s work in organizing care for the wounded in the Crimea.”

Charlotte did not have to feign interest. “Letters?” she said eagerly. “Oh, that is so much more exciting than a history book.” Without a thought for Emily’s strategy, she leaned forward a little. “I should be so pleased if I might see them. It would be like—like holding a piece of the real past in my hands, not merely somebody else’s judgment of it! What do you know of him—the soldier who wrote the letters, I mean?”

The stern lines of Balantyne’s face softened and some reserve within him released itself. He put the glass down. He ignored the formality of saying that of course she might see the letters, as if that should be assumed and need not be put into words between them.

“He was a person of considerable intelligence,” he said intently. “It seemed he served as an enlisted man instead of as an officer by his own choice, and he was obviously well able to read and to write. His observations are most sensitive, and betray a compassion I admit I find very moving.”

“It is hardly an uplifting conversation for the dinner table.” Augusta looked at them with disfavor. “I cannot imagine that we wish to know of the sufferings of some pathetic common soldier in—wherever it was!”

“The Spanish peninsular,” Balantyne explained, but she ignored him.

“I should think they are quite as uplifting as the matrimonial aspirations of Miss Fairgood,” Alan Ross said dryly.

“To whom, for goodness’ sake?” Christina asked caustically.

“To me,” Ross replied. “To your father, and—unless she is being more courteous than others have been so far this evening—to Miss Ellison.”

Charlotte caught his eye, and looked down quickly at her plate. “I am afraid I cannot claim credit for such delicacy, Mr. Ross,” she said, forcing her face to remain modestly composed. “I am most genuinely interested.”

“How quaint,” Christina murmured. “Lady Ashworth, you were saying that you have lately made the closer acquaintance of Lavinia Hawkesley. Don’t you find her quite the most entertaining creature? Although I am not at all sure how much she has any intention of being!”

“I fancy the poor soul is bored to weeping,” Emily replied with a furious glance at Charlotte. “And I cannot say that I entirely blame her. Sir James is a man fit to bore anyone. He must be thirty years older than she is, at the very least.”

“But extremely wealthy,” Christina pointed out. “And with any decency at all, he will the before another ten years are past.”

“Oh!” Emily rolled her eyes heavenward. “But what can she possibly do for another ten years?”

A small smile flickered across Christina’s face. “She is not without imagination—”

“And that is her misfortune!” Augusta interrupted sharply. “She would be much better off if she had none at all. And whatever your fancy begets, Christina, it would be more discreet if you were not to speak of it. We do not wish to be the prognosticators of other people’s misdeeds.”

Christina took a deep breath. That was obviously precisely what she had wished to be, but curiously she did not argue. In fact, Charlotte thought she saw a momentary pallor, a tightening of her face, but whether it was pity or temper she could not judge.

“I suppose she might occupy herself in some charitable work,” George suggested hopefully. “Emily frequently tells me how much there is to be done.”

“And that is it!” Christina was suddenly savage. “When a gentleman is bored, he may gamble at his club at dice or cards, go to the races, or drive his own pair if he wishes! He may go shooting or play billiards, or go to theaters—and worse places—but if a lady is bored she is expected to occupy herself with charitable works—going round and visiting the hungry or the dirty, muttering soothing words at them and encouraging them to be virtuous!”

There was too much truth in her outburst for Charlotte to argue, and yet she found herself unable even to begin to tell Christina Ross of the sense of purpose and satisfaction she herself found from working to bring about parliamentary reform. There was a reality about it, an urgency to life, that would have made games, or even sports, seem divorced from the world and unbearably trivial.

She leaned forward, searching for a way to express her feelings. Everyone was staring at her, but nothing adequate came to her mind.

“If you are about to expound on the delights of Papa’s military histories, Miss Ellison, please do not bother,” Christina said freezingly. “I do not wish to know about cholera in Sebastopol, or how many wretched souls died in the charge of the Light Brigade. The whole thing seems to me to be an idiot game played by men who should be locked away in Bedlam where they can harm no one but themselves ... and perhaps each other!”

For the only time in her life to that moment, Charlotte felt a rush of sympathy for Christina. “Can you think of a way in which we might enforce that in law, Mrs. Ross?” she said enthusiastically. “Think of all the young men who might not the, if we did!”

Christina looked at her with a curious little frown. She had not expected agreement from anyone, least of all from Charlotte. She had begun by intending only to be rude. “You surprise me, ”she said candidly. “I thought you were a great admirer of the military.”

“I hate blind vanity,” Charlotte answered. “And I deplore stupidity. The fact that they occur in the army more dangerously than anywhere else, except perhaps in Parliament, does not make my respect for courage of the soldier any less.”

“In Parliament?” Augusta was incredulous. “Really, my dear Miss Ellison! Whatever can you mean?”

“A fool in Parliament can oppress millions,” Balantyne offered. “And God knows there are enough of them! And vain ones, too.” He looked at Charlotte with complete frankness, as if he had temporarily forgotten she was a woman. “I have not heard so much sense put so succinctly in years,” he added with a slight drawing together of his brows. “I had a feeling you were about to say something else when Christina brought back the subject of the army. Please tell me what it was?”

“I—” Charlotte was acutely conscious of his eyes upon her. They were a brighter, clearer blue than she had remembered. And she was increasingly aware of his power, the will that had enabled him to command men in danger and fear of death. She abandoned the effort to phrase her feelings politely.

“I was going to say that when I have time to spare, I involve myself in an attempt to have some of the laws upon child prostitution reformed, so that they would be a great deal more rigid than at present, and it would be a very grave offense either to use children oneself or to traffic in the use of them, whether they are boys or girls.”

Alan Ross turned to face her, his eyes keen.

“Really?” Augusta’s expression was one of complete incomprehension. “I would not have imagined one could have any success in such a venture without considerable knowledge upon the subject, Miss Ellison.”

“Of course not.” Charlotte accepted the challenge and stared back at her unflinchingly. “It is necessary to acquire it, or one can have no influence at all.”

“How extremely distasteful,” Augusta said, closing the subject.

“Of course it is distasteful.” Alan Ross refused to be silenced. “I think that is what Brandy was saying the other evening—you remember Brandy, Miss Ellison? But then if those of us who are able to reach the ears of Parliament do not care about such ills, who will effect any change?”

“The church,” Augusta said finally. “And I am quite sure they will do a better job of it than we will by indulging in wild and unprofitable speculation over the dinner table. Brandon, will you be so good as to pass me the mustard? Christina, you had better have a word with your cook—this sauce is totally insipid. It is no better than cotton wool! Do you not think so, Miss Ellison?”

“It is mild,” Charlotte replied with a slight smile. “But I do not find it disagreeable.”

“How odd.” Augusta turned over her fork. “I would have expected mustard to be much more to your taste!”

After the meal was finished, the butler brought in the port. Augusta, Christina, Emily, and Charlotte excused themselves to the withdrawing room to leave the gentlemen to drink, and to smoke if they wished. It was the part of the evening Charlotte had looked forward to least. She was sharply aware of Christina’s dislike, and now also of Augusta’s disapproval. And above either of these unpleasant feelings, she felt acutely nervous about what Emily might do. She had come for the sole purpose of pursuing the names and characteristics of Christina’s less reputable friends, with a view to discovering if any of them might have been seduced by Max. Please heaven she was at least subtle about it—if one could conceivably be subtle about such a thing.

Emily gave her a warning look before they sat down. “You know, I do so agree with you,” she said to Christina with an air of conspiracy. “I long to do something a little more adventurous than calling upon people one already knows positively everything about—and making polite and tedious conversation. Or else doing ‘good works.’ I am sure they are very worthy, and I admire those who can enjoy them. But I confess I do not.”

“If you attend church occasionally, and look after the families of your servants, that is all that is required of you,” Augusta pointed out. “Other good works of visiting, and so on, are only necessary for single ladies who have nothing else to do. It keeps them occupied and makes them feel useful. Heaven knows there are enough of them—one must not usurp their function!”

They all seemed for the moment to have forgotten that, as far as they knew, Charlotte fell into that category.

“I think perhaps I shall take to riding in the park,” Emily mused. “One might meet all manner of interesting people there—or so I have heard.”

“Indeed,” Christina said. “I know exactly what you mean. But believe me, there are things which one may do that have far more spirit of adventure, and are a great deal more entertaining, than writing letters or making social calls upon people who are inexpressibly dull. It is not really improper, if one does not go alone, for one to visit—”

“Do you paint, Miss Ellison?” Augusta cut across Christina in a loud, penetrating voice. “Or play the pianoforte? Or perhaps you sing?”

“I paint,” Charlotte replied immediately.

“How pleasant for you.” Christina’s opinion of painting was implicit in her tone. Single women who could think of nothing more exciting to do than sit about with brushes and bits of wet paper were too pathetic to waste emotion upon. She turned back to Emily. “I have quite decided that I shall ride in the Row every morning that the wish takes me and the weather is agreeable! I am sure that with a spirited animal one might have a great deal of pleasure.”

“With a spirited animal, my girl, one may very well land flat on one’s face in the mud!” Augusta snapped. “And I would have you remember it, and not behave as if taking a fall were a light thing!”

Christina’s face drained of all color. She stared straight ahead, looking neither at Augusta nor at Emily. If she had any rebuttal, it was stillborn inside her.

Charlotte tried desperately to think of something to say to cover the silence, but everything trivial and polite seemed grotesque after the sudden reality of emotion, even though she did not understand it or its cause. If Christina had injured herself, perhaps in some recklessness on horseback, it was a most indelicate subject to refer to. It did flicker wildly into her mind that perhaps that was the reason she appeared as yet to have no family. The uprush of pity was painful; she did not wish to feel anything for Christina but dislike.

“Emily plays the piano,” Charlotte said emptily, merely to change the subject and dismiss her thoughts.

“I beg your pardon?” Augusta swallowed. There were very fine lines on her throat that Charlotte had not noticed before.

“Emily plays the piano,” Charlotte repeated with increasing embarrassment. Now she felt ridiculous.

“Indeed? And you did not learn?”

‘No. I preferred to paint, and Papa did not insist.”

“How wise of him. It is a waste of time to force a child who has no talent.”

There was no civil answer to that. Charlotte suddenly ceased to feel guilty about the softness she had seen in the general’s face, or the quick honesty in his eyes when he had forgotten the niceties of the table and simply spoken to her as a friend with whom he might speak of things that mattered, things of the mind and the emotions.

Indeed, when the gentlemen rejoined them shortly afterward, she was perfectly happy to find herself almost immediately engaged in a long discussion with him about the retreat from Moscow. She did not need to make the least pretense to follow his every word and share his fascination with the wide sweep of history as the tide of Europe turned, or the wound of pity for the solitary deaths of men in the bitter snows of Russia.

When they rose to leave, it was the general’s face that was in her mind, not Christina’s. It was only afterward, when Emily spoke to her on the way home, that any sense of guilt returned.

“Really, Charlotte, I asked you to engage the general’s sympathy so that we might learn something of use to us—not enchant the man out of his wits!” she said acidly. “I really do think you might learn to control yourself. That apricot gown has gone to your head!”

Charlotte blushed in the darkness, but fortunately neither Emily nor George could see her. “Well, there was little point in my trying to pursue Christina’s more flighty acquaintances!” she said sharply. “You all had me marked as a poor little creature who sits at home painting when I am not going out doing good works among the unfortunates!”

“I quite understand your disliking Christina.” Emily changed tactics and assumed elaborate patience instead. “I do myself—and she was certainly very rude to you. But that is not the point! We were there to pursue the investigation, not to enjoy ourselves!”

Charlotte had no answer for that. She had learned nothing whatsoever, and, if she were even remotely honest, she had enjoyed herself indecently much. At least she had at times; there were moments that had been perfectly ghastly. She had forgotten how very crushing Society could be.

“Did you learn anything?” she asked.

“I have no idea,” Emily replied in the darkness. “Perhaps.”