Farriers' Lane

7

FOR SEVERAL DAYS Pitt had continued trying to trace the love affair between Juniper Stafford and Adolphus Pryce without telling Charlotte more of it than a few brief details.

She thought on many occasions of the whole case, but her mind turned more towards the original murder in Farriers’ Lane, and the question of whether it was conceivable that Aaron Godman had been innocent. And if he were, then who could have been guilty? Joshua Fielding?

What had been his relationship with Tamar Macaulay? Was he the father of her child? Or had it been Kingsley Blaine? If Joshua had still been in love with her, that would have been a motive. Perhaps he saw her feelings for Blaine and realized she was slipping away from him, and in a furor of jealousy murdered Blaine?

What had really happened in the theater dressing room that night? Kingsley Blaine had given Tamar a valuable necklace, a family piece which should have belonged to his wife. No one had seen it since. Had she given it back to Blaine? If she had, who had taken it from him?

Was that what Judge Stafford had investigated, and for which he had been killed? It was only a possibility. Pitt still seemed to be pursuing Juniper and Adolphus Pryce. But the fear sat like a chill weight in Charlotte’s mind, because of Caroline.

And even if Joshua Fielding were totally innocent, that was hardly the problem solved. Caroline, who had always been so sensible, so obedient to all that society expected, so full of decorum, was behaving like a giddy girl! Charlotte bitterly resented Grandmama’s remarks about her mother’s being a fool, but they touched a nerve of real fear. Just how far was Caroline going? Was this simply a little romance, a concern for the welfare of someone she liked? Or could she be light-headed enough to feel something more?

And if she did, how would she cope with it? Would she realize its complete unsuitability, the fact that it would be ruinous to have anything but the briefest and most totally discreet romance—surely not an affaire? Not Caroline! She was fifty-three, and had grandchildren! She was Charlotte’s mother! The very thought of it made Charlotte feel upset and curiously lonely.

If it looked like getting out of hand, should she send for Emily? Emily would know what to say, how to prevail upon Caroline’s sense of proportion—even of survival.

But perhaps before taking such a radical step Charlotte should make absolutely sure what the situation was. She might be panicking quite unnecessarily. It was almost certainly nothing so absurd.

She would visit Caroline again and put the matter to her candidly. Caroline would understand her concern.

All this she thought lying awake in the darkness, and when morning came she saw Pitt off without even asking him where he was going, or what time he expected to be home. Not that they were questions he could answer, but it had been her habit to ask, simply as a demonstration that she cared.

Then she informed Gracie that she was going out on a matter of business to do with the murder in Farriers’ Lane, with the implicit promise that when she came back she would tell her whatever she learned.

Gracie smiled happily and set about scrubbing the kitchen floor with a vigor and enthusiasm quite out of proportion to her interest in the task.

Charlotte took the omnibus to Cater Street and arrived shortly after ten o’clock, not a suitable time for calling. She found Caroline busy sorting linen for the housemaid, and Grandmama still not emerged from her bedroom, where she was customarily served her breakfast on a tray.

“Good morning!” Caroline said with surprise and a slight frown of concern. She was dressed in plain brown stuff, with no trimmings but a cotton lace collar, and her hair wound loosely and with no fashionable curls or braids. She looked younger than usual, and prettier. Charlotte had not seen her so informally for several years, and she was taken aback by how comely she looked, how good her features and her skin. Without the additions of fashion, expensive clothes and elaborate hair she was more individual, softer, less like every other woman in society of middle years. Words rose to her lips to say so, then she thought perhaps it would be tactless.

“Good morning, Mama,” she said cheerfully. “You look very well.”

“I am.” Caroline’s brow creased. “What brings you here so early? Has Thomas learned something about the case?”

“I don’t think so. If he has, he hasn’t told me.” Charlotte automatically took the other end of the bedsheet Caroline was examining and held it up, saw that it needed no mending, and helped her fold it again. “I came because I think it is time we learned more ourselves, don’t you?”

“Indeed,” Caroline agreed immediately, so immediately that Charlotte wondered if it were something she had been thinking about herself, or if it were simply another opportunity to take action, and probably to meet Joshua Fielding again.

“How much do we really know about the people involved?” she said, taking a pillowcase and trying to be tactful.

“You mean their actions on the night of the murder?” Caroline asked, not looking at Charlotte but at the pile of linen as yet unexamined.

“Well, that would do for a start,” Charlotte said with less than enthusiasm. This was going to be difficult. “But we need to know a great deal more about their personalities than I do, at least. Perhaps you know more?”

“Yes—I should imagine so.” Caroline explored the embroidery at the edge of the pillowcases, looking for places where it was weak and coming away from the fabric.

Charlotte hated herself for being so devious. “What about Tamar Macaulay? Do you know who is the father of her child?”

Caroline drew in a breath to expostulate, then let it out again slowly as the necessity for realism overtook her.

“Kingsley Blaine, I believe. She really did care for him, you know. It was not a quick romance, or a matter of seeking the presents he could give her.”

“Did he give her many presents?”

“No—no, I don’t think so.”

“Isn’t it possible someone else was in love with her also, and was sufficiently jealous of Kingsley Blaine that he might have killed him?”

Caroline looked up, her face pink, her eyes defensive. “You mean Joshua, don’t you?”

“I mean anyone that could apply to,” Charlotte said as levelly as she could. “Does that mean Joshua?”

“He was in love with her once,” Caroline said with a gulp, looking at the linen again. She snapped a pillowcase sharply, and it slipped out of her fingers. “Drat!” she said angrily.

“Mama, don’t you think we should find out a little more? After all, that’s not surprising, is it? If people are attractive, and see each other a great deal, it is most probable they will have feelings for each other, at least for a while? Perhaps it passes, and then they may find the person who is right, not merely familiar. That doesn’t mean that Joshua still felt anything for her afterwards except a friendly affection.”

“Do you think so?” Caroline bent and picked up the pillowcase, keeping her eyes down. “Yes—yes, I suppose so. Of course you are right. We do need to know more. I shall lose my wits staying here wondering. But how can we do it without being appallingly intrusive?” She frowned, regarding Charlotte anxiously.

Grandmama appeared in the doorway, her stick hitting the lintel sharply. They were startled and stepped apart instantly. Neither of them had heard her footsteps.

“You are appallingly intrusive,” she said to Caroline. “Which is socially unforgivable, as you must be aware! Goodness knows, I have told you so often enough. But immeasurably worse than that, you are giving the absurd impression that you are in love with this—this—actor!” She snorted. “It is not only ludicrous, it is disgusting! The man is half your age—and he is a Jew! You seem to have lost your wits. Good morning, Charlotte. What are you doing here? You didn’t come to fold the laundry.”

Caroline gulped, her breast rising and falling as she strove to control herself.

Charlotte opened her mouth to retort, and then thought it would be wiser to allow Caroline to defend herself; otherwise Grandmama would think she was unable to. Then when Charlotte was gone, Caroline would be even more vulnerable.

“You are the only person who thinks such a thing.” Caroline stared at Grandmama, her cheeks flooded with hot color. “And that is because you have a cruel and quite mistaken mind.”

“Indeed?” Grandmama said with exquisite sarcasm. “You are capering around in extravagant new clothes, to Pimlico, of all places. Nobody goes to Pimlico! Why should they?” She leaned heavily on her black stick, her face tight. “Simply because suddenly you have nothing better to do? I could most assuredly find you something. Yesterday’s dinner was totally unplanned. I don’t know what Cook was thinking of. Blancmange, at this time of the year? And artichokes! Ridiculous! And what, may I ask, could you possibly want in Pimlico?”

“There’s nothing wrong with early artichokes,” Caroline replied. “They are delicious.”

“Artichokes?” Grandmama banged her stick on the floor. “What have artichokes to do with anything? As I have just said, you are pursuing a man young enough to marry your daughter—and a Jew, to boot. Do you drink, Caroline?”

“No, I do not, Mama-in-law,” Caroline replied, her face stiff and growing paler. “You appear to have forgotten, but I was in the theater when Judge Stafford died, and I was quite naturally interested in seeing that justice is done and there is no unnecessary pain caused to innocent persons.”

“Balderdash!” Grandmama said fiercely. “You are besotted on that wretched poseur. On the stage. For heaven’s sake, what next?”

Silently Charlotte folded the linen and slid it onto the shelf.

“You seem to have forgotten your own interest in the murder in Highgate,” Caroline attacked the old lady. “You forced the acquaintance of Celeste and Angeline—”

“I did not!” Grandmama exploded with indignation, her voice quivering with offense. “I merely went to offer them my condolences. I had known them half my life.”

“You went out of curiosity,” Caroline replied with a harsh thread of amusement. “You hadn’t seen or spoken to them in thirty years.”

They both ignored Charlotte totally.

“They were hardly actresses cavorting about on the public stage.” Grandmama took up the fight in earnest. “They were the maiden daughters of a bishop. One can hardly be more respectable than that. And I never chased after a man in my life. Let alone one half my age!”

Caroline lost her temper.

“That is your misfortune,” she snapped, shoving the pile of pillowslips across the shelf. “Perhaps if you had ever met anyone as interesting, charming and totally full of wit and imagination as Joshua is, then you wouldn’t be the bitter old woman you are now—with no pleasure left except making other people miserable. And I shall go to Pimlico as often as I choose.” She smoothed down her skirts sharply and stood very straight. “In fact Charlotte and I are off there now—not to see Mr. Fielding, but to find out more about who killed Kingsley Blaine—and why!” And with that statement she swept past Grandmama, leaving both Charlotte and the old lady staring after her.

Grandmama swung around to Charlotte, glaring at her.

“I hold you to blame for this. If you hadn’t married a policeman, and taken to meddling in disgusting matters which no decent woman would even have heard about—let alone concerned herself with—then your mother wouldn’t be taking leave of her senses now and behaving like this.”

“We cannot take you this time, Grandmama, no matter what you say.” Charlotte smiled at her tightly, looking straight into her black eyes. “The subject is far too delicate. I am sorry.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” the old lady snapped. “Why on earth should I wish to go to Pimlico?”

“For the same reason you went to see Celeste and Angeline, of course,” Charlotte replied. “To indulge your curiosity.”

For a moment the old lady was so angry she was robbed of words.

Charlotte smiled sweetly and turned around and went after her mother out across the landing and downstairs.

“Charlotte.” The old lady’s voice followed after her, sharp and plaintive. “Charlotte. How dare you speak to me like that! Come back here! Do you hear me? Charlotte!”

Charlotte ran down the last few steps and caught up with Caroline.

“Are we going to Pimlico?” she said quietly.

“Of course,” Caroline replied, looking around for her cloak. “There’s nowhere else we can begin.”

“Are you sure that is wise? There is no point in going simply to ask the same questions again.”

“Of course I’m sure,” Caroline said urgently. “We can see Clio Farber at this time of day. Theater people rise late, compared with most, take a good luncheon, which they call dinner, and rehearse in the afternoon.” Charlotte was about to say something, but Caroline hurried on. “She already understands the situation; she may have found a way in which we can meet this Devlin O’Neil. He is the only one we know of who is a definite suspect. That is the right word, isn’t it?”

“Yes—yes, it is.” Charlotte reached for the cloak and held it while Caroline put it over her shoulders. She put her own coat back on again. “How do you know Miss Farber is aware of the situation?”

“Maddock!” Caroline called out. “Maddock! Will you please call the carriage for me? No—no, on second thought don’t bother. I will take a hansom.” She glanced up towards the landing where the grim figure of the old lady was staring down the stairs, her stick striking at the banisters.

“Caroline,” she said loudly. “Caroline!”

“I am going out,” Caroline replied, grasping Charlotte by the arm. “Come, Charlotte. We cannot waste time, or we shall miss them.”

“You’re going to run about after that actor again?” Grandmama called from halfway down the stairs. “That Jew!”

Caroline turned around in the front doorway. “No, Mama-in-law, I am going to see Miss Farber. Please don’t make an exhibition of yourself by raising your voice in front of the servants. I shall be out for luncheon.” And without waiting for anything further, she gripped Charlotte by the arm again and went outside, leaving Maddock to close the door behind her.

For ten minutes they walked briskly along the pavement, past acquaintances to whom Caroline nodded briefly with a word of greeting.

“Good morning, Mrs. Ellison.” A large lady in green with a fur tippet stood squarely in the way, and it was impossible to continue without speaking. “How are you?” she demanded.

They were obliged to stop.

“In excellent health, thank you, Mrs. Parkin,” Caroline replied. “And you?”

“All things considered, not badly, thank you.” Mrs. Parkin stared at Charlotte enquiringly.

Caroline had no option but to outstare her.

“May I present my daughter, Mrs. Pitt. Mrs. Parkin.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Parkin,” Charlotte said obediently.

“How do you do, Mrs. Pitt.” Mrs. Parkin smiled, her eyes going up and down Charlotte’s rather plain coat and second-season boots. “I don’t believe we have met before?” She made it a question.

Charlotte smiled back, brightly and just as blandly.

“I am sure we have not, Mrs. Parkin. I should have remembered.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Parkin was momentarily lost for words. The reply was not what she had planned. “How kind of you. Do you live in this area?”

Charlotte smiled even more brightly. “Not now, but of course I used to.” Seeing the intent expression in Mrs. Parkin’s face, and knowing the interrogation would continue, she carried the war into the enemy’s camp. “Have you lived here long yourself, Mrs. Parkin?”

Mrs. Parkin was startled. She had considered herself in charge of the conversation, and all she had looked for were polite and truthful answers as befitted a socially junior woman. She regarded Charlotte’s eagerly interested face with displeasure.

“Some five years, Mrs. Pitt.”

“Indeed,” Charlotte said quickly, before Mrs. Parkin could continue. “Most agreeable, don’t you find? I know Mama does. I do hope you have a pleasant day. I think the weather is going to improve, don’t you? Do you require a hansom?”

“I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Parkin said stiffly.

“Then you will forgive us if we take that one.” Charlotte gestured vaguely. “We have an appointment some distance away. So very pleasant to have made your acquaintance, Mrs. Parkin.” And with that she took Caroline’s arm firmly and hurried along the pavement, leaving Mrs. Parkin standing staring after them with her mouth open and her breath drawn in to speak.

Caroline did not know whether to laugh or be horrified. She was torn between natural instinct and a lifetime of training. Instinct won and she giggled happily as they walked with undignified haste towards a hansom cab waiting by the curb.

They alighted in Pimlico and were admitted to the Passmores’ huge parlor. Joshua Fielding, Tamar Macaulay and several other people were sitting in large cane chairs, involved in animated conversation. Scripts lay about on table tops and several on the floor in piles. Miranda Passmore sat on a heap of cushions; this time the door had been opened by a youth with curly hair, bearing a strong resemblance to her.

As soon as Caroline and Charlotte came in, Joshua rose to his feet and welcomed them. Charlotte saw with remarkably mixed emotions the instant pleasure in his face and a gentleness in him unique in his glance towards Caroline. If it were possible he cared for her more than mere friendship, or a gratitude that she was so concerned for his welfare, then Caroline was not so wildly vulnerable, not open to such a humiliating rejection. That brought a rush of warmth to Charlotte and smoothed away some of her own fear.

And yet if he did have such feeling, it would only lead to disaster. At best a sad parting, because it was impossible—or at worst an affaire, with all the heartbreak when it ended, when he grew tired of her, or she came to her senses. And the ever-present risk of the most fearful scandal. Grandmama had no gentleness in her, no tenderness, but her fears were not ill founded. Society did not forgive. It was full of women like Mrs. Parkin with her prying questions and intrusive, knowing eyes. Those who broke the rules were never permitted to return. There would be no place for Caroline after that.

Joshua was speaking to Charlotte, and she had not heard a word he had said. He was standing in front of her smiling, with a shadow of anxiety in his eyes. He had a remarkably mobile and expressive face, full of possibilities for humor, passion, pain and wry, relentless self-knowledge. It would be terribly difficult not to like him, however much the thought of him with Caroline disturbed her.

“I’m so sorry,” she apologized. “My mind was woolgathering.”

“I doubt it,” he said candidly. “I think you are concerned for this wretched affair, most generously on our behalf, and you are wondering what we can do next that would be of any use. Am I not right?”

She seized the chance. “Yes, indeed you are,” she lied, meeting his eyes and forcing herself to smile back. “I think it is time we made the acquaintance of Mr. Devlin O’Neil, if Miss Farber is able to help us.”

He turned and beckoned to a young woman in her, early thirties, but casually dressed in something like an artist’s smock. Her fair hair was wildly curly and she had not bothered to dress it except to pile it on her head and secure it with a couple of pins and a length of bright red fabric. It was quite beautiful, and flattered her wide-cheekboned face with blue eyes and broad, soft mouth. It was a face Charlotte liked immediately. As soon as the most perfunctory introductions were made, and acknowledgment of the others in the room, she turned to Clio.

“Has Mr. Fielding spoken to you of our concern?” Concern was such a tame word, but she could think of no better—at least until she knew more of the situation.

“Oh yes,” Clio replied quickly. “And I am so glad you are going to do something! We none of us believed it was Aaron. We simply had no idea how to succeed in making anyone else accept that. Poor Tamar has struggled alone for all these years. It is wonderful to have someone really capable with her now.”

Charlotte opened her mouth to say that she was not really so very capable, then changed her mind. It would be most unhelpful, even if true. It would discourage Tamar and make Clio Farber less likely to trust her.

“Well, we need all the help you can find,” she said instead. “You see, it all depends on being able to observe people when they are unaware you have any interest in the matter at all.”

“Oh yes, I see that,” Clio agreed. “Tamar explained it quite clearly. I shall contrive a situation where you can meet Kathleen O’Neil in such a way it will all look most natural. I am good at that.” Her face shadowed and she moved very slightly so that her back was towards the others in the room.

“I don’t know if Joshua told you,” she went on, “but I am … acquainted”—she hesitated delicately, but there was nothing sly in her, or intending innuendo—“with Judge Oswyn, who sat on the appeal.” Her face shadowed. “With poor Judge Stafford.”

“Did he know Judge Stafford?” Charlotte asked. “I mean personally?”

Clio’s face was thoughtful, her answer quick, as if she had already considered the question and it troubled her. “Of course they were acquainted, but how much it was personal rather than simply professional I do not know. I feel it may have been. Granville, that is, Judge Oswyn, seemed to have some deep feeling about him. I rather think it was a kind of embarrassment. Or perhaps that is not quite right—maybe a sort of anger mixed with discomfort. But when I asked him why, he was evasive, which is most unlike him.”

Charlotte was confused. She had assumed Clio’s relationship with Judge Oswyn was casual and social, but from the candor with which she apparently spoke to him about the most indiscreet subjects, perhaps it was much more. Was she his mistress? It would be inexcusably clumsy to ask. How could she phrase her questions so as to elicit the information and yet remain reasonably tactful?

“You think he would have discussed it differently had it not troubled him?” she said aloud.

“I am quite sure,” Clio replied with a smile. “He is a very frank and gentle man. He likes to be open, to speak freely, to laugh about things, not unkindly, but to”—she shrugged slightly, an elegant and expressive gesture—“to be with friends. You know, friendship is rarer than one would care to think, especially for a man in his position.”

“And he had not that friendship with Judge Stafford?”

“No—I think not. I formed the impression there was some matter between them which Judge Stafford kept pressing, and which Granville did not wish to discuss anymore.”

“Aaron Godman?”

Clio frowned. “I am not certain. I know Granville was unhappy about it, and hated to speak of it. The trial was perfectly proper, of course, but he felt it had been poorly handled. It was a source of embarrassment to him.”

“By Judge Quade?” Charlotte said with surprise.

Clio shook her head quickly. “Oh no—not at all. By the police, I think. I am redly not sure. He would not discuss it with me. But then that is quite natural, since I knew Aaron, and cared for him very much. He was a very sweet man.”

“Was he? No one has said very much about him, personally, only about the case. Tell me about him,” Charlotte asked.

Clio lowered her voice even more, so Tamar, a few feet away, could not hear her.

“He was two years younger than Tamar—twenty-eight—when he died five years ago.” Her face had a curious expression of sweetness mixed with pain. “He was slight, like her, but not really so dark, and of course a lot taller. In fact he was not so unlike Joshua. They used that, sometimes, on stage. He had a lovely sense of humor. He loved to play the most terrible villains and provoke the audience to scream.” She smiled as she said it, then her eyes quite suddenly filled with tears and she sniffed hard and turned her head away for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said quietly. “Please don’t go on if it is painful. It was thoughtless of me to ask. It is Devlin O’Neil we have to know about.”

Clio sniffed again. “That is really too bad of me,” she said fiercely. “I thought I had better control of myself. Please forgive me. Yes, of course. I shall arrange for you to meet Kathleen O’Neil.” She fished for a handkerchief. “I know just how I shall do it. She is very fond of romantic music, and there is a soiree the day after tomorrow, at Lady Blenkinsop’s house in Eaton Square. I know the pianist well, and he will invite us. Can you come?”

Charlotte considered asking if Clio were sure it would be socially acceptable, and then decided she really did not care if it were or not.

“Certainly,” she said firmly. “I shall enjoy it. Tell me who I am supposed to be. I cannot be myself, or they will tell me nothing. In fact they will probably ask me to leave.”

“Of course,” Clio agreed cheerfully. “You had better be a cousin visiting from—from Bath!”

“But I don’t know Bath,” Charlotte argued. “I would look ridiculous if I fell into conversation with someone who knew it well. Let it be Brighton; at least I have been there.”

“By all means.” Clio smiled and stuffed her handkerchief away. “Then it is arranged? If you come here first, we can travel together. I shall say you are up visiting because you are interested in the stage. Can you sing?”

“No. Not at all!”

“Well, you can certainly act! At least your mother says so. She has recounted some of your adventures to Joshua, just two or three days ago, and he told us. We were all very entertained—oh, and impressed, of course.”

“Oh dear.” Charlotte was taken aback. She knew Caroline disapproved of her involvement in Pitt’s cases. How much she had changed, at least on the surface, if she was now regaling her new friends with accounts of them. How much she was denying her previous self in order to please. That was a most uncomfortable thought, and she pushed it away. There was no time for it now.

“I think it is quite thrilling,” Clio went on enthusiastically. “More dramatic than anything we do—because it is real. Remember not to dress too fashionably, won’t you? You are supposed to be a provincial cousin.”

“Oh, certainly,” Charlotte said with a perfectly straight face. What did Clio Farber imagine policemen earned, that their wives might dress in the current vogue?

In the event, without Emily to borrow from, and not daring to approach Vespasia for anything less than a reception or a ball, Charlotte asked Caroline if she might try something of hers from last season, or even the one before. Her request was granted with alacrity, and considerable disappointment that it was really not advisable for her to go also. But it would risk being conspicuous for three of them to turn up to such a function, and Kathleen O’Neil would not find it the chance encounter it was intended to seem.

But she did not refuse the offer of Caroline’s carriage to pick her up at home in Bloomsbury.

She left a note for Pitt on the kitchen table.

Dearest Thomas,

I have been invited to a soiree with a friend of Mama’s and I am going because I am a little anxious about her lately. She is becoming very fond of people I do not know at all, and this will give me an excellent opportunity to make their acquaintance rather better. I shall not be late, it is only an hour or two of music.

Your dinner is in the oven, mutton stew with potatoes and plenty of onion.

I love you,

Charlotte

She went first to Pimlico to collect Clio Farber. They arrived at Eaton Square, alighting in a swirl of nervous laughter, and climbed the wide steps up to a most imposing doorway flanked by liveried footmen who enquired for their names.

Clio took charge, informing them that she was a friend of the soloist who was to perform for their guests’ enjoyment, and was accompanied by her cousin. The footman hesitated for a moment, glanced across at his colleague, then inclined his head graciously and allowed them in.

The hallway was most impressive, flagged in black-and-white marble like a chessboard. There was a large statue of a youth after the Greek style in an alcove near the foot of the stairs, which swept up in an arc to the landing and the balustrade which bordered a gallery along half its length.

It was already filled with people all most elegantly dressed, the women in gowns glitteringly embroidered, lots of bare shoulders gleaming in the light from the chandeliers.

“You didn’t tell me it was going to be so formal,” Charlotte whispered to Clio. Already she was feeling not only like a provincial cousin but a very poor one, positively from the woods. She had thought Caroline’s gown quite becoming when she put it on at home, but now it was not only two seasons out of date, it seemed very unimaginative and pedestrian. The deep brandy shade was far too conservative. She must look fifty in it.

“To tell you the truth, I didn’t know it was going to be,” Clio whispered back. “Reggie said it was just a score or so of friends. They must have enlarged it since then. Still, that will make it easier to run into Kathleen without being so obvious. Come on. This is an adventure.”

Charlotte had rather more experience of adventures, and knew they could very easily become unpleasant if taken too casually. Nevertheless she followed Clio into the huge withdrawing room where sixty or so seats were arranged artistically in groups so people might hold intelligent and uplifting conversations with each other between the musical items.

For several minutes Charlotte and Clio moved around the edge of the throng of people, trying to appear as if they were looking for someone. Clio introduced Charlotte to her friend Reggie, who was standing gracefully in the region of the piano, ready to play when the signal should be given and the hostess introduced him.

They were conversing amiably and perhaps from nervousness. They told of one or two amusing recollections. Charlotte burst into laughter, and Clio put both her hands up to her face to stifle a giggle. Several people glanced at them with severe disapproval. One aristocratic young woman stared over her fan, flicking it noisily.

“Who are those persons?” she asked her neighbor in a penetrating voice. “I don’t believe I know the person in the pink gown. Do you?”

“Certainly not,” the neighbor replied with a sniff. “Whatever made you suppose I might know her? Really, Mildred. I don’t know anyone who dresses like that.”

“Oh, you mean the brown? Yes, extraordinary, isn’t it. I swear Jane Digby-Jones had something like that—two years ago.”

Charlotte was aching to retaliate. She looked at Clio and saw the tide of color up her cheeks.

“Who is the lady with the loud voice?” she asked, smiling at the pianist, her own voice carrying at least the distance between them. “The one with the crystal necklace.” She knew perfectly well it was diamonds, and heard the gasp of outrage with satisfaction.

“A Miss Cartwright, I think,” the pianist replied, trying to keep his face straight. “Or maybe it is Wheelright?”

“Waggoner,” Clio corrected with a smile.

“Something like that,” Reggie agreed. “To do with transport of some sort. Why?”

“Why?” Charlotte was confused.

“Why do you ask? Would you care to know her dressmaker?”

“No!” It was a squeak. “I mean, no, thank you,” she amended. “Really—we must …”

“Of course. The matter is in hand,” Clio agreed. “I’m so sorry.” She linked her arm in Charlotte’s and together they walked past Miss Waggoner with dazzling smiles. They continued on through the crowd until Clio stopped next to a young woman with fair hair swept up stylishly and a most individual face, high cheekbones and brown eyes.

“Good evening, Kathleen,” Clio said, affecting great surprise. “How very nice to see you again. You look so very well. May I introduce my dear friend Charlotte? Actually she is a sort of cousin, come up to stay with us for a while. I was sure this would be the most excellent evening for her, and now doubly so for the chance of meeting with you. It seems such a long time. How are you?”

Kathleen O’Neil had little alternative but to accept the introduction so ingenuously required, but she showed no disinclination.

“How do you do.” She could not add Charlotte’s name because Clio had not supplied it, presumably a deliberate omission to avoid lying. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance. I hope you are enjoying your stay. Have you come far?”

“Oh, not very,” Charlotte said, swallowing her guilt and dismissing it. “I am sure I shall have a most interesting and enjoyable time. It is kind of you. I imagine you are used to an evening like this, but it is quite a treat for me.”

“Indeed?” Kathleen was saved from having to find anything else to say by the arrival of a man Charlotte knew immediately must be Devlin O’Neil. He was very dark, with the cast of features filled with humor and a certain fey imagination which she had seen only in Irishmen. He was not strictly handsome, there was something uncertain in his face, possibly a weakness but more probably only ambivalence. But he was confident and full of charm. He responded warmly to Clio’s greeting and the introduction to Charlotte.

“How delightful to see you again.” He smiled at Clio. “It has been far too long. We have met the stuffiest people lately.” He put his arm around his wife proprietorially and stood close to her. “Forgive me, my dear?” He pulled a very slight face and glanced around them. Indeed, his comment was easy to understand. The company was unusually proper, even for such an event.

Charlotte plunged in. She must at least attempt some detecting. She was not here to be entertained merely by social observation to no purpose.

“Are you here more by duty than inclination, Mr. O’Neil?” she said sweetly.

He smiled back at her. “Entirely by duty, ma’am. To accompany my father-in-law and his mama. She is fond of amateur musical evenings—at least she is fond of being seen by those who frequent them. And of catching up with events.”

“But of course,” Charlotte agreed quickly. “There is nothing so interesting as gossip if you know the people spoken of and have someone to whom you can repeat it who will appreciate all its nuances to the full.”

“My goodness, you have no fear in speaking your mind,” he said with a sharp light of amusement in his eyes.

Two young women passed by them, glancing at O’Neil over their fans and swishing skirts with ostentatious grace.

“Do you not find it so, Mrs. O’Neil?” Charlotte turned to Kathleen.

Kathleen smiled, but it was the guarded gesture of one who had been wounded by precisely such thoughtless acts. “I confess it interests me only occasionally. I find people can be most malicious at times.”

Charlotte wondered if quite suddenly in the midst of all the inconsequential chatter she had heard a word of true emotion. She was reminded sharply that here was a woman whose husband had been murdered, after having an affair with someone else. It said a great deal for Kathleen O’Neil that she could continue a friendship with Clio Farber, a woman so close to the cause of such misery: not only another actress, but a friend and colleague of Tamar Macaulay herself. Charlotte felt a surge of admiration for her, and a dislike for her own role of one seeking to place the guilt on the shoulders of her second husband. The duplicity alone was offensive, and the fun she had felt for a moment fled out of it.

“Of course,” she said with instant sobriety. “When it is hurtful it is quite a different matter. I suppose a great deal of it is. A lot of people are ill informed, and their remarks better not made. I was thinking only of trivia, and perhaps I spoke too lightly anyway.” She accepted a glass of lemonade from a passing footman, as did the others.

“Oh no, it is I who should apologize,” Kathleen said, blushing a little. “I did not mean to be so contrary. It is only that I am acquainted with people who have been hurt by unthinking repetition of matters which were not fully true, or were of a deeply private nature. And of course those are the things gossips delight in most.”

Around the room there was a murmur of expectation, and then a lessening of sound. Apparently something was about to begin. Instinctively they turned towards the piano, where a large lady with a gown winking with beads at the bosom was attempting to command attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began. There was a murmur of polite applause. The evening’s entertainment had commenced. Charlotte smiled at Kathleen and deliberately took a seat beside her, aware of Clio’s eyes on her, and then her head turning away as she engaged Devlin O’Neil in whispered conversation.

The pianist began to play, without flourish or more than a single glance at his audience. He seemed to be rapt in his music and to be conjuring it out of his instrument solely for his own enjoyment. Or perhaps enjoyment was the wrong word. Watching him, Charlotte felt as if it were a necessity for him, more of a sustenance to his soul than the dainty sandwiches and pastries were to the bodies of his assembled listeners. She was not highly educated in music, but she did not need an experienced critic to tell her that this young man was excellent, far beyond the ability of his fashionable audience to appreciate.

When he finished his final piece before the interval there was a courteous applause. He rose, took a very slight bow—no more than was necessary to acknowledge their presence—and left, walking with long strides under the archway into the room beyond.

The silence filled with chatter again, and pretty maids in white caps and lace-trimmed aprons came around with trays of sweetmeats, and liveried footmen came with chilled champagne. Charlotte did not care in the slightest for either, but she accepted automatically because it was easier than the constant refusal. She was too full of the glory of the music to wish to make a comment which could not possibly do it justice.

“Very good, don’t you think?” Devlin O’Neil said, almost at her elbow. She had not heard him approach. He was smiling again. She judged it an expression which came to him very readily, out of a great good nature and an expectancy of being liked, rather than any particular pleasure.

“Brilliant,” she replied, hoping she did not sound gushing.

Before he could reply to her, they were joined by a large thick-chested man with the appearance of unusual strength. His face was remarkable, with a great hatchet nose and small, very bright, intelligent eyes. On his arm, clinging to him for actual physical support, as well as a certain air of possession, was a woman a generation older. A facial resemblance about the eyes and brow made it instantly apparent she must be his mother.

“Oh, Grandmama-in-law,” Devlin O’Neil said, his smile broadening. “Did you enjoy the music? May I present to you …” He hesitated, realizing for the first time that he did not know Charlotte’s full name. He overcame the inconvenience by glancing at Clio and introducing her first. It was so smooth that if Adah Harrimore noticed, she gave no sign of it.

“How do you do, Miss Farber.” She inclined her head graciously, but there was no interest in her face. “How do you do, Miss Pitt,” she added, when Clio had supplied the missing name. Charlotte did not bother to correct the title (something she would normally have leaped to do), but any possible connection with Thomas was to be avoided.

“How do you do, Mrs. Harrimore,” she replied, regarding the old lady curiously. She had a remarkable countenance, powerful, and yet with a knowledge of fear, a guardedness about it that was at the same time belied by its boldness. There was iron will in it, and yet also anxiety, a looking for reassurance to her son. It was full of contradictions.

“I did enjoy the music.” Charlotte summoned her thoughts to the present. “Did you not think the pianist was excellent?”

“Very gifted,” Adah conceded with the slightest pucker between her brows. “Many of them are, in that field.”

Charlotte was lost. “I beg your pardon. Many of whom, Mrs. Harrimore?”

“Jews, of course,” Adah replied, her frown increasing as she looked at Charlotte more closely, surveying her strong face and rich, deep coloring, her hair like polished chestnut. “Not that I suppose that has anything to do with it,” she added inconsequentially.

Charlotte knew at least a smattering of history in the matter.

“It might have. Did we not in the past deny them most other occupations apart from medicine and the arts?”

“I don’t know what you mean—deny them!” Adah said sharply. “Would you have Jews into everything? It’s hard enough they are in all the finances of the nation, and I daresay the whole Empire, without being everywhere else as well. We know what they do in Europe.”

Devlin O’Neil smiled briefly, first at Adah, then at his father-in-law. He stood very close to his wife. “It’s as bad as the Irish, isn’t it?” he said cheerfully. “Let them in to build the railways, and now they’re all over the place. One is even obliged now and then to meet them socially. And into politics too, I’ll wager.”

“That is not at all the same thing,” Prosper Harrimore said, without even the faintest flicker of answering humor in his face. “The Irish are just like us, my dear boy. As you know perfectly well.”

“Oh indeed,” O’Neil agreed, putting his arm around Kathleen. “For some they even are us. Was not the great Iron Duke himself an Irishman?”

“Anglo-Irish,” Prosper corrected, this time the shadow of a smile on his narrow lips. “Like you. Not the same thing, Devlin.”

“Well, he certainly wasn’t a Jew,” Adah said decisively. “He was good blood, the best. One of the greatest leaders we ever had. We might all be speaking French now without him.” She shivered. “And eating obscenities out of the garden, and heaven only knows what else, with morals straight from Paris. And what goes on there is not fit to mention.”

Charlotte did not know what possessed her to say it, except perhaps a desire to break the careful veneer of good manners and reach some deeper emotion.

“Of course Mr. Disraeli was a Jew,” she said distinctly into the silence. “And he was one of the best prime ministers we ever had. Without him we would forever be having to sail all the way ’round the bottom of Africa to get to India or China, not to mention getting our tea coming back. Or opium.”

“I beg your pardon!” Adah’s eyebrows shot up and even Devlin O’Neil looked startled.

“Oh.” Charlotte recollected herself quickly. “I was thinking of various medicines for the relief of pain, and the treatment of certain illnesses, which I believe we fought China very effectively in order to obtain—in trade …”

Kathleen looked polite but confused.

“Perhaps if we hadn’t gone meddling in foreign places,” Adah said tartly, “then we would not have acquired their diseases either! A person is better off in the country in which God placed him in the first instance. Half the trouble in the world comes out of people being where they do not belong.”

“I believe Her Majesty was devoted to him,” Charlotte added inconsequentially.

“To whom?” Kathleen was totally lost.

“Mr. Disraeli, my dear,” O’Neil explained. “I think Miss Pitt is teasing us.”

“I never doubted they were clever.” Adah fixed Charlotte with a bright, brittle glance. “But that does not mean we wish to have them in our homes.” She gave a convulsive little shudder, very tiny, but of a revulsion so intense as to be akin to fear.

Kathleen looked at Charlotte with apology in her eyes.

“I am sorry, Miss Pitt. I am sure Grandmama did not mean that as distastefully as it may have seemed. All sorts of people are most welcome in our house, if they are friends—and I hope you will consider yourself a friend.”

“I should like to very much,” Charlotte said quickly, grasping the chance. “It is most generous of you to ask, especially in view of my remarks, which were in less than the best of judgment, I admit. I tend to speak from the heart, and not from the head. I so enjoyed the pianist I rushed to his defense where I am sure it was quite unnecessary.”

Kathleen smiled. “I do understand,” she said softly, so her grandmother would not hear. “He momentarily transformed me onto a higher plane, and made me think of all manner of noble things. That is not entirely the composer’s art, it is his also. He gave voice to the dreams.”

“How well you put it. I shall most certainly continue your acquaintance, if I may,” Charlotte said, with sincerity as well as the desire to know more of Kingsley Blaine, and what manner of man he had been. Had he truly intended to leave this seemingly warm and impulsive woman for Tamar Macaulay, and knowing the cost that would be to him? Or had he simply been weak, and in indulging his physical passions placed himself in a situation where he could not bring himself to leave either of them? How extraordinary that two such women should have loved him so deeply. He must have had a unique charm. It was growing increasingly important that she find a way to see him as objectively as possible, through the eyes of someone not so blinded by love. Perhaps if she visited the home of Kathleen O’Neil she might have a further opportunity to speak with Prosper Harrimore. His face was shrewd, guarded. Kingsley Blaine had been the father of his grandchild, but she imagined a man such as he was would not be easily hoodwinked by charm. His eyes on Devlin O’Neil suggested an ability to stand back, an affection not without judgment. He might be the key to a less emotional view, a perception that would see danger and weakness as well.

The pianist returned and the second half of the evening’s entertainment commenced, and for its duration Charlotte forgot all about Kingsley Blaine, his family, or the death of Samuel Stafford. The passionate, lyrical, universal voice of human experience took over and she allowed herself to be swept up by it and carried wherever it took her.

Afterwards the O’Neils and the Harrimores had become engaged in conversation with other acquaintances. Prosper was deep in discussion with a man who had the portentous air of a merchant banker, and Adah was listening with acute attention to a thin, elderly woman who was holding forth at some length and would brook no interruption. Once Charlotte caught Kathleen’s eye and smiled, receiving a flash of humor and understanding in return, but other than that solitary instance, Charlotte and Clio left without further encountering them.

Micah Drummond stood in his office staring out of the window down at the street where two men were haggling over something. It was latched against the blustery evening, and the rain beginning to splash now and then against the pane, so he could not hear their voices. It all seemed far away, divorced from any reality that mattered, and of less and less importance to him. He was forced to admit, the death of Samuel Stafford was rapidly becoming the same.

He should care. Stafford had been a good man, conscientious, honorable, diligent. And even if he had not, no decent person could condone murder. His brain told him he should be outraged, and in some distant part of his mind he was furious at the arrogance of it, the destruction of a life, and the pain. But on the surface where his concentration was, all he could care about intensely was Eleanor Byam. Everything he did had value to him only as it had reference to her. He could not remove from his mind the picture of her face in all its moods, the light and shadow as she laughed, and, when the sadness returned, the memory of pain, and her loneliness now that all the world she had known had disappeared and shrunk into the lodging house in Marylebone and the few tradesmen with whom she had dealings.

He ached to be able to give her more, and yet he was perfectly sure that what he felt was not pity; indeed he found the word offensive applied to her. She had far too much courage, too much dignity for him to dare such an intimate and intrusive feeling.

And yet he was aware with an ache of pain how her life had changed.

But the most powerful emotion in him was still the longing to be with her, to share his thoughts, his ideas, the experience of the things he loved. He imagined walking across a wide field with her by his side, the smell of the dawn wind off the sea, and the clouds piled and shredded in veils of light. The loveliness of it would fill him till he could scarcely contain it, and he would turn to her, and know she saw it with the same bursting heart that he did. And in that sharing all loneliness would vanish.

It flickered through his thoughts that if Adolphus Pryce felt this same consuming emotion for Juniper Stafford, and over years, perhaps it had driven from him all sense of proportion, and ultimately of morality. But it did not remain with him long, nor form itself into coherent ideas.

Instead of being with Eleanor, he was here, in Bow Street, waiting for reports on a murder he knew he would not solve. If it was solved at all, it would be by Pitt. It would be Pitt’s anger at waste and injustice, and Pitt’s insight, helped no doubt by Charlotte’s curiosity, which would find the answer, whether Drummond was there or not.

The job had completely lost its savor for Drummond, and he realized gloomily that he was in danger of making some stupid, unnecessary error, which would spoil his reputation and close his career with shame instead of honor.

He turned from the window and strode across to the hat stand, where he picked up his hat and cane, took his coat from the peg and went out into the corridor.

“Poulteney, I’m going out. Put the reports on my desk when they come. I’ll see them in the morning. If Inspector Pitt comes back, tell him I’ll see him tomorrow.”

“Yes sir. Will you be coming back tonight, sir?”

But Drummond was already striding away and he did not register the question.

Outside he walked the short length of Bow Street and around the corner into Drury Lane, where he caught a hansom. He gave the driver Eleanor’s address, and sat back trying to compose his mind and prepare what he was going to say. He changed the words a dozen times between Oxford Street and Baker Street, but when he got out at Milton Street and paid the driver it all sounded so much less than he meant. He even considered calling another cab and going away again. But if he did, the situation would not improve. He would be no more than delaying what was for him inevitable. He must ask her, and there was nothing to be altered or gained by delaying.

The same surly maid answered the door, and when he informed her he wished to see Mrs. Byam, she conducted him with ill grace through the hallway and back to Eleanor’s private door.

“Thank you,” he said briefly, and waited while she glared at him, then turned on her heel and went.

With suddenly beating heart and dry lips he raised the knocker and let it fall.

It was several moments before he heard her steps at the far side and the handle turn, and then it swung open. It was Eleanor herself; presumably her one maid was otherwise occupied. She looked surprised to see him. For an instant there was pure pleasure in her face, then within seconds it clouded with anxiety, almost a foreboding as she met his eyes. Perhaps she saw his emotions there, as naked as he felt, and it was not acceptable to her. Instantly he was embarrassed. He had said nothing at all yet, and already he had begun badly.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Drummond,” she began, then blushed at the clumsy formality of it. Surely neither of them needed to pretend quite so much? A little social grace to hide behind was good, but too much and it ceased to be a shield and became a mask.

“How kind of you to call,” she said in a rush. “Please come in. It’s turning a little cold, don’t you think? Is it too late to offer you tea?”

“No—thank you,” he accepted, and followed her in. “I mean, no, it is not too late. I should very much like a cup of tea.” The small room was exactly as he had remembered it, cramped, narrow windowed, shabby carpets worn in the center, mismatched furniture, only made special by her few small possessions kept from the house in Belgravia: a painting of the western isles, a small bronze figure of a horse, a few embroidered cushions.

She rang the bell and when her one maid appeared requested tea with a courtesy few women used towards servants. He could not remember whether it was her usual manner or something new since her wildly reduced circumstances. Either way, its graciousness warmed him ridiculously, and its necessity touched him to new sadness.

Eleanor stood by the mantel shelf, looking down at the fire, unlit. It was too early in the season to burn a fire all day, for one who had to be careful of the coal.

“I hope you are not concerned for me?” she said quietly. “It is not necessary, I assure you. My means are sufficient. And I really have no desire now to mix in society.” She looked at him suddenly, her eyes very serious.

“I did not come out of any anxiety for you,” he replied, meeting her gaze.

She blushed, the color rising up her cheeks in a dark tide.

Again he felt exposed. He knew his emotions were in his face, and he had no idea how to hide them.

“How is your case progressing?” she asked quickly. “Are you doing any better?”

She had changed the subject that was unspoken between them, and yet as obvious as if everything had been heard in words. He resented it, and yet he was also grateful.

“No, I think we really know no more than last time I was here,” he replied ruefully. “Pitt is determined it is not the wife or her lover, but I think he is wrong. There really is no evidence either way.”

“Why do you think it is them?” she asked, sitting down at last, and permitting him to do so as well.

“Tragic as it is, it is still the most likely,” he answered. “The only other alternative seems to be to do with the Farriers’ Lane case. And that was closed five years ago. Eleanor …”

She looked up, waiting, her breath indrawn as if she too were about to speak.

“Eleanor, I really don’t care about the case—or any other case especially. It has become less and less important to me lately …”

“I’m sorry—but I expect you will get over it. We all experience a touch of ennui occasionally. Familiar things become tedious for a while. Maybe you need a break from London? Have you thought of going away for a few days? Even a week or two, perhaps?”

All sorts of answers came to his mind. He could not leave Bow Street until this case was resolved. The murder of a judge was too important. It would look as if he did not care, even though there was nothing he could do that Pitt would not do better. He did not wish to inflict his restlessness on his daughters, who would expect him to join their family life. A fortnight with either of his sons-in-law would be far from restful, and he hated being in someone’s house when he had neither a true guest’s status nor a resident’s independence. He would be bored and lonely staying in a hotel, and long walks in the autumn solitude of the hills would leave his problem untouched.

Instead he spoke the simple truth.

“My feeling has nothing to do with London, or the death of Judge Stafford. It has simply sharpened my knowledge of what I must do.”

There was a flicker of fear in her face, which might have meant anything. With a cold hollow in his stomach he plowed on, dreading her response, and yet determined now not to shirk the issue. He was capable of more pain than he had believed, but he was not a coward.

She was waiting, accepting now that she could not dissuade him.

“I must acknowledge that my happiness lies with you.” He could feel the blood hot in his cheeks. “And ask you if you will do me the honor of becoming my wife.”

Almost before he had finished the denial was in her face, the misery in her eyes.

“It would be an honor, Micah. But you must know I cannot.”

“Why not?” He heard his voice and hated himself for his lack of dignity, his childishness, as if arguing could make a difference. Why was he vain enough to have imagined that her gratitude, her innate kindness was anything akin to love?

“You know the answer to that.” Her voice was low and full of pain. Her face had the baffled look of one who has been struck unexpectedly.

“You do not care for me.” He forced the words out, preferring to say them himself so he would not hear them on her lips.

She looked down at the floor.

“Yes, I do,” she said very quietly, less than a smile touching her mouth, merely a softness. “I care for you very much—far too much to allow you to marry a woman who is socially such an outcast that alliance with her would ruin you.”

He drew in his breath to argue.

She heard him, and looked up quickly.

“Yes, it would. The scandal surrounding Sholto will never be forgotten. I am inextricably tied to it, and I always will be. I was his wife. There will always be people who remember that.”

“I don’t—” he began.

“Hush, my dear,” she interrupted him. “It is very noble of you to say that you do not care about society, but you have to. How could you hold the position you do, commanding the investigation into delicate cases where political discretion is needed, and immense tact, scandals that involve our greatest families, if your own wife had been so closely tied to the very worst of them?” Her eyes were intense. “I know very little of the police, but I can see that much. I am sensible of your honor, that you would not withdraw an offer once made, no matter what your greater wisdom might tell you, but please—we have been friends. Let us at least keep honesty between us. It would ruin you, and I cannot let that happen.”

Again he wanted to speak, to argue, but he knew she was right. He could never continue in his position if he were married to Eleanor Byam. Some scandals were forgotten, but that one would not be—not in ten years, not in twenty. The absurdity was that if he were to keep her as his mistress there would be whispers, a little laughter, perhaps a good deal of envy. She was a beautiful woman, but their affair would be largely ignored. Whereas if he did what was immeasurably more honorable, and married her, he would be distrusted and eventually shunned.

“I know,” he said very quietly. He wanted to touch her. He wished to so intensely it was a physical effort not to, but he knew it would be wrong, clumsy, and somehow indelicate. “But I count your company a greater happiness than any social or professional position.”

She looked away quickly, for the first time her composure breaking. The tears filled her eyes. She stood up and walked over to the mantel shelf.

“You are very generous, and I admire you immensely for it. But it does not alter anything. I cannot let you do such a thing.” She turned around and forced herself to smile at him, the tears standing out in her eyes. “What kind of love would I have for you if I were to take my own well-being at such a price to you? It would be no happiness.”

He could think of no argument. What she said was perfectly true. Everything worldly he could offer her would be reduced by her very acceptance. And he would never have married her if by doing so he would have ruined her.

Very slowly he rose to his feet, a little stiffly, even though it had been only a short time.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice husky.

For a moment he thought of going to her and taking her in his arms. But it would be intrusive, unfair, and it would change nothing. He had no idea what to say. To take leave formally now, as if he had only called for tea, would be ridiculous. He met her gaze, and knew that his face betrayed all his emotions. For a moment he stood still, then he turned and went out, passing the ladies’ maid in the hallway. The tea tray was sitting on the table. She was a discreet woman, and had understood more than he gave her credit for. She opened the door for him, then hesitated a moment.

“I hope you will call again, sir.”

He looked at her and saw in her set, tense expression that the words were not idle, not simply a very customary way of bidding farewell.

“Oh yes,” he said very firmly. “I shall certainly call again.”

Pitt had also found little satisfaction in the day. He had spent some considerable time further pursuing the relationship of Juniper Stafford and Adolphus Pryce, learning what he could about how it had deepened from a social acquaintance brought about by Pryce’s professional contact with Judge Stafford. It had been extremely difficult to do without at any time suggesting to those who did not know that it was now an immoral liaison and could have led to murder. The people he spoke to were agog for gossip and innuendo. Had they not been, they would have been of little use in his quest for facts, but their very sensitivity meant he had to be the more careful. As a result the picture he had gained was unclear, full of shadows and implications of passion, but without substance.

He came home tired and dispirited, feeling that he was pursuing something whose reality he would never know beyond doubt, and certainly never prove.

Charlotte had an excellent dinner ready: rich mutton stewed with potatoes and sweet white turnip, and flavored with rosemary. He ate slowly and with more satisfaction than he had felt all day. He had finished and was sitting in the parlor by the fire with his feet on the fender, sinking slowly farther and farther down in his chair, before he realized that she was preoccupied and looked now and then a little worried.

“What is it?” he asked reluctantly, wishing it would be nothing, some domestic triviality he would not have to bother with.

She bit her lip and turned from the work box where she had been sorting threads.

“The relationship between Mama and Joshua Fielding.”

“Is she going to be very upset if he is implicated in the Farriers” Lane murder?” he asked. He liked his mother-in-law, although he was more than a little in awe of her, and he certainly would not wish her to be hurt. However, being disappointed now and then was part of caring, and the only way to avoid it was to care about no one, which was a kind of death. “I don’t see why he should be,” he went on. “Everything I have found out indicates it was Aaron Godman, just as the original trial decided.”

She pulled a face. “I almost wish he were involved.”

“You aren’t making sense.” He was confused.

Her face screwed up even farther, and she closed her eyes. “Thomas, I think she is really in love with him. I know that’s absurd—but—but I think it’s true.”

“It is absurd,” he said, eager to dismiss it. He slid lower in the chair till his ankles were on the fender and his feet so close to the fire the soles of his slippers were hot. “She is a very respectable society widow, Charlotte. He is an actor, a Jew, and twenty years younger than she. You are exaggerating out of all proportion. She is probably bored, as Emily is half the time, and looking for something to become involved in. This is more colorful, and more dramatic, than tea parties and fashion. She will forget it once she has seen him cleared.”

“Do you think so?” Charlotte looked hopeful, her eyes wide and very dark.

Her expression, far from cheering him, suddenly made him consider the matter properly. He recalled Caroline’s face as she had looked at Joshua Fielding, the heightened color, the altered tone in her voice, the frequency with which she mentioned his name. And Charlotte was much more sensitive to such delicate changes than he was. Women understood other women in a way a man never could.

“You don’t, do you?” Charlotte challenged, almost as if she read his thoughts.

He hesitated, on the edge of denying it, then the honesty between them won.

“I don’t know—perhaps not. It seems absurd, but then I suppose love very often is. I thought I was absurd falling in love with you.”

Suddenly her face was radiant, as if the sun had illuminated it.

“Oh, you were,” she said happily. “Quite ridiculous. So was I.”

And for a while Caroline was forgotten, and her pain or her foolishness put aside.

However, to Mrs. Ellison senior, it was the most urgent matter in the world, and excluded everything else: the weekly edition of the London Illustrated News, the latest escapades of the Prince of Wales and his various lady friends, the opinions of the Queen, such as were known or guessed, the sins of the government, the vagaries of the weather, the general inadequacies of the domestic servants, the decline of good manners and morals, even her own various illnesses and their symptoms. Nothing was as important, or as potentially disastrous, as Caroline’s infatuation with this wretched actor person. An actor. Of all the absurdities. How grossly unsuitable. In fact unsuitable was far too mild a word for it—it was unacceptable—that is what it was. And as for his age … He was twenty years her junior—or fifteen at least, in a good light. And that was more than bad taste: it was disgusting.

She must tell her so. It was her duty as her erstwhile mother-in-law.

“Thank heaven poor Edward is dead and in his grave,” she said purposefully, as soon as Caroline arrived at the dinner table. The dining room table once had Caroline, Edward, their three daughters and their son-in-law, Dominic Corde, around it, as well as Grandmama. It was now set merely for the two of them, and they were marooned at either end of it, staring down the long oaken expanse at one another. They each required a cruets set; it was too far to pass them.

“I beg your pardon?” Caroline forced her attention to this extraordinary remark.

“I said, thank heaven Edward is dead and in his grave,” the old lady repeated loudly. “Are you losing your hearing, Caroline? It can happen as one gets older, you know. I have noticed your sight is not as good as it used to be. You squint at things nowadays. It is unbecoming. It causes wrinkles where one does not wish them. Not, I suppose, that there is anywhere one does. But it cannot be helped at our age.”

“I am not your age,” Caroline said tartly. “I am nowhere near it.”

“Rudeness will not help,” Grandmama said with a sickly smile. The conversation was well in her command. “You are moving towards it. Nothing stays the hand of time, my dear. The young often imagine it will somehow be different for them, but it never is, believe me.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Caroline said tersely, putting salt into her soup, and discovering it did not require it. “I am not young, nor am I your age. You are my mother-in-law, and Edward was several years older than I.”

“An excellent arrangement,” Grandmama said, nodding her head. “A man should be a little older than his wife. It makes for responsibility and domestic accord.”

“What absolute balderdash.” Caroline peppered the soup and found it did not need that either. “If a man is irresponsible, marrying a younger woman will do nothing to cure him. In fact more probably the opposite. If she has no sense either, then they will both be in debt.”

Grandmama disregarded that. “If a man is a little older than his wife,” she said, sipping her soup noisily, “then she will obey him the more easily, and there will be peace and happiness in the home. An older wife may be headstrong.” She sipped her soup again. “And on the other hand, she may be so foolish as to allow him to lead, when he has no maturity and no judgment—and certainly no authority. Altogether it will be a disaster, and end in ruin.”

“What complete tarradiddle.” Caroline pushed her soup away and rang the bell for the butler to remove it. “A woman with any sense at all will go entirely her own way, and allow her husband to think it is his. That way they will both be happy, and the best judgment will prevail.” The butler appeared. “Maddock, please serve the next course. I have changed my mind about the soup. Tell Cook it was excellent, if you have to tell her anything at all.”

“Yes ma’am. Will you be taking fish?”

“Yes, please, but only a very small portion.”

“Very good, ma’am.” He looked enquiringly at the old lady. “And for you, ma’am?”

“Of course. There is nothing wrong with me.”

“Yes ma’am.” And he withdrew.

“You should eat properly,” Grandmama said to Caroline before the door was closed. “There is no point thinking of your figure. Elderly women who get scrawny are most unattractive. Necks like turkeys. I’ve seen better things dead on Cook’s bench in the kitchen.”

“Much better,” Caroline snapped. “At least their mouths are shut!”

Grandmama was furious. That remark was totally uncalled for, and unforeseen.

“You never had what one would call delicate manners,” she said viciously. “But you are getting worse. I should be embarrassed to take you into company that mattered.”

Maddock came in and served the fish, then withdrew again.

“I cannot recall your taking me anywhere at all,” Caroline replied. “And you haven’t known anyone that mattered for years.”

“That is the lot of widows,” the old lady said with sudden triumph. “And if you had any dignity or common sense, or idea of your place, neither would you.” She attacked her fish with relish. “And you certainly would not be gallivanting around goodness only knows where, chasing after a man half your age, with an occupation not fit to mention. All decent people who aren’t laughing at your expense are busy feeling pity for you, and for me, because my daughter-in-law is making a complete spectacle of herself.” She sniffed loudly and speared her fish with a fork. “He’ll use you like a common bawd, you know. And then laugh about it to his disreputable friends. You’ll be the subject of saloon bar jibes—and …”

She got no further. Caroline rose from the table and glared at her.

“You are a miserable, selfish old woman with a venomous tongue and a thoroughly dirty mind. I have done nothing, and shall do nothing, to make me the talk of anyone at all, except those like you who have no lives of their own and nothing to talk about but other people’s. You may finish your dinner on your own. I do not wish to dine with you!” And she swept out of the door just as Maddock came in, leaving Grandmama openmouthed and for once taken completely by surprise.

However, when she reached her bedroom Caroline found her eyes pricking with tears and her throat aching so unbearably it was a relief to lock the door and curl up in a heap on the bed and let go of the sobs that were welling up inside her.

It was all true. She was behaving like a fool. She was in love as she had never been before, with a man fifteen years younger than herself, who was socially impossible. That he was impossible for her was so unimportant it did not matter a jot. What hurt like a physical wound was that she would be just as impossible for him.

It was three more days before Caroline screwed up her courage and called upon Charlotte so that they might between them endeavor to close the matter of Kingsley Blaine’s death. Whatever transpired between herself and Joshua Fielding, however hopeless and absurd it was, he was still in danger of being involved once more in suspicion, and all the misery and loss that that would bring.

“We could call on Kathleen O’Neil,” Charlotte suggested, looking at Caroline, her face full of concern.

“Excellent.” Caroline turned away, concealing her gaze in case Charlotte saw too clearly her vulnerability, and the fact that for all the sense of her reasoning, she could not keep either the emotion or the tiny pinpoint of hope away from herself. “We really do need to know a great deal more about Mr. Blaine if we are ever to learn who killed him. And why,” she went on resolutely, “Tamar Macaulay seems so certain it was not her brother. Joshua believes that too—and I do not think it is simply affection which makes him feel so.”

“Good,” Charlotte said with a gentleness not usual in her, in such a pedestrian matter as an afternoon call. “We’ll go today. I must change, of course, and we’ll take luncheon here, if you like.”

“Yes—yes,” Caroline agreed. “And we will think what we shall say.”

“If you like, although I always find plans are of little use, because the other people never say what you intended.”

Mid-afternoon found Charlotte and Caroline alighting from Caroline’s carriage at Prosper Harrimore’s house in Markham Square. They presented Caroline’s card at the door so that Mrs. O’Neil might be informed that they had called upon her, if she would receive them. Then they held a sudden and extremely hasty debate as to how they should account for Caroline’s name being Ellison, while Charlotte’s was Pitt. They concluded the only safe answer would be a widowhood and a second marriage, if they were forced to say anything at all.

A very few moments later the maid returned to say that indeed Mrs. O’Neil would be delighted to receive them, and was in the withdrawing room, where if they would care to, they might join her.

Kathleen O’Neil was not alone, but she welcomed them courteously, and with obvious pleasure, introducing them to the two Misses Fothergill who were also calling. Conversation recommenced and was so trivial that neither Charlotte nor Caroline paid it more than the bare minimum of attention necessary not to make a crass remark. Charlotte noticed that even Kathleen was growing a little glassy eyed.

They were rescued by the arrival of Adah Harrimore, dressed in deep plum-colored wool and looking very dignified. Her rather dour presence seemed to awe the Misses Fothergill, and after a short interval they took their leave. Then Adah herself received a visit from an elderly clergyman, whom she preferred to entertain in private, so she excused herself and repaired to the morning room with him.

“Oh, thank heavens,” Kathleen said with heartfelt relief. “They are very well meaning, but they are so terribly boring!”

“I am afraid some of the kindest people can be very hard work to entertain,” Caroline said with wide eyes. “After my husband died there were so many people, not unlike the Misses Fothergill, who called on me, intending to take me out of my grief—and I suppose in a fashion they did—at least for as long as they were there.” She smiled at Kathleen, and felt a terrible guilt at her duplicity.

“I’m so sorry,” Kathleen said quickly. “Was your loss recent?”

“Oh no. It is several years now, and it was not especially sudden.” Caroline made a mental apology to Edward, but felt less guilt towards him than to Kathleen. In later years they had been reasonably comfortable, but much of the trust had gone. There had been tolerance, and some gradual understanding, but not the closeness she dreamed of. She could not even remember knowing the laughter and the tenderness she knew Charlotte and Pitt shared.

“But I am sure you must have felt it deeply, all the same.” Kathleen was looking at her with sympathy in her eyes. “I lost my first husband in the worst possible circumstances, and I always felt that people like the Misses Fothergill still have it in their minds when they call here. I think that is why they are so stilted. They cannot yet think quite what to say to me. I suppose one can hardly blame them.”

Caroline wanted to pursue the subject, but it was too blatant, and she found herself stuck for words. Apparently Charlotte felt no such qualms.

“Since you are so obviously happy with Mr. O’Neil, I am surprised they still think of your first husband.” She lifted her voice at the end to make it half a question.

Kathleen looked down.

“If you knew the circumstances you might understand,” she said very quietly, almost under her breath. “You see, Kingsley was murdered. There was a great scandal at the time, and a big court case when they caught the man who killed him. And then even though he was convicted, he appealed.” She twisted her hands in her lap. “Of course they denied it, and he was hanged soon afterwards. There was a great deal of feeling; people seemed to care so very much.” A faint surprise crossed her face, as though even with hindsight she still found it incomprehensible. “People who knew nothing about us wrote letters to the Times. Members of Parliament spoke about it in the House of Commons, demanding that the conviction stand, and such barbarity be punished to the utmost, for all our sakes. It was terribly distressing. There seemed never a second we could escape from it.”

“It must have been dreadful,” Charlotte agreed. “I can barely imagine such a thing.” She glanced at Caroline briefly, hoping she understood the apology she intended for what she was about to say. “Although my own eldest sister was murdered, several years ago now, so I do have the deepest sympathy with you.”

Kathleen looked startled, and then immediately profoundly sympathetic. She regarded Charlotte anxiously. “Does that sound heartless? But you cannot grieve at fever pitch all the time. You get so tired, so incredibly weary. You need to be able to think of something else for a space, just to remind yourself that there is still a normal life separate from your loss.” She smiled self-consciously, then instantly was grave again. “You see, all London seemed to be obsessed with our tragedy and the horror of it. They talked about it day and night.”

“However, the court case was over quickly,” Charlotte hastened on. “And there was no appeal. The poor creature was quite mad.” She frowned. “Why on earth did this man appeal? Surely there can have been no purpose but to prolong everyone’s agony?”

“He always maintained he was not guilty.” Kathleen bit her lip. “Right to the gallows steps, so I heard.” She looked down at her hands clenched in her lap. “I sometimes have nightmares that that was true, and he died just as wrongfully as poor Kingsley—and in a way, even more terribly, because it was cold-blooded, if we can say such a thing of so public a rage.” She looked up at Charlotte. “I’m sorry. This is quite an appalling thing to be discussing with people one barely knows who have called for tea. I am ashamed of myself, but you were so quick to understand—and I do appreciate that.”

“Please don’t apologize,” Charlotte said quickly. “I would far rather discuss reality. I assure you I am not in the least interested in the weather, I know very little of society, and I care even less. And I cannot afford to be fashionable.”

On any other occasion Caroline would have kicked Charlotte under her skirt for such indiscreet candor, but this time she cared far too much about the real issue behind their presence.

Kathleen smiled ruefully. “You really are the most refreshing person to speak with, Miss Pitt. I am so grateful you came.”

Charlotte felt a stab of guilt, then thought of Aaron Godman, and it was immediately overridden.

“I should not let it trouble you,” she said gently. “Some people will protest, even when they are most certainly responsible for what happened. Why was he supposed to have done such a thing? Robbery? Or did they know each other?”

“They knew each other,” Kathleen said very quietly indeed. “Kingsley, my husband, was having an affaire with the man’s sister, and she believed he would marry her—which of course was nonsense. But she was misled, as women so often are, when they are in love.” A sad reflective smile touched her lips, utterly without bitterness. “We all have our dreams, and some are so precious it is not easy to let them go.”

“How dreadful for you.” Charlotte meant it wholeheartedly. The thought of Pitt even entertaining desires for another woman was acutely painful. How she would bear it if she learned he was actually having an affaire she had no idea. “I am so terribly sorry!”

Caroline was silent, allowing Charlotte to lead the conversation.

Kathleen heard the anguish in Charlotte’s voice and shook her head a tiny fraction, dismissing the grief.

“Oh, Kingsley was very charming, and amusing, and generous,” she said gently. “And I never saw him in an ill temper, but I always knew he was weak. He liked to please, which can be a fault as well as a virtue. I imagine he loved her also, and never found the courage to hurt her by telling her the truth.” She looked at Charlotte with wide, dark eyes. Then, as if reading her thoughts: “You see, he had very little money of his own. We lived quite well because Kingsley did small jobs for Papa, in his business. He was so charming he was excellent at entertaining people and cementing a bargain. But if he had left me, society would have ostracized him completely, and Papa would have made quite certain that any chance he might have had would be ruined.”

Her eyes softened. “Papa can be such a gentle man, I cannot imagine anyone more patient or concerned than he is with my children, and he is always affectionate with me, and with Grandmama. But he can be very different when he detects cruelty or dishonesty in people. He hates evil with a passion—and he would have regarded Kingsley leaving me to be quite evil. And for all his ease and pleasantness, Kingsley knew that.”

“And it could not have been a chance robbery?” Charlotte tried to put concern in her tone, as though she did not already know possibly more of the facts than Kathleen herself.

“I doubt it.” Kathleen winced. “It was far too dreadful and pointless a thing to have done simply to rob someone. And it did—it did seem to have been someone Jewish. I think that is why Grandmama now feels so strongly about them. She was very fond of Kingsley.”

“Oh dear—you must have suffered greatly.” Charlotte meant it. “I should not trouble yourself anymore with doubts about”—she caught herself just in time from mentioning his name—“the man who was hanged. After all, if it was not he, then who could it have been?”

“I don’t know.” Kathleen shrugged very slightly. “I wondered if it was the other actor—did I say that the man they hanged was an actor? No. Well, he was. You see, it was an actress Kingsley was having an affaire with.” For all her frankness, she still avoided saying “in love.”

Charlotte swallowed. “The other actor?”

“Yes—Joshua Fielding. He is Jewish also—and he was in love with Kingsley’s actress.”

“You think he was jealous?” Charlotte asked, her throat tight, painfully aware of Caroline sitting rigid a few feet away, her hands clenched hard in her elegant gloves.

“Or that he knew Kingsley would never marry her,” Kathleen replied. “And he hated him for hurting her, albeit without really intending to. Kingsley had a terrible quarrel with him only a couple of days before he was killed.”

“With—Joshua Fielding?” Caroline interrupted for the first time. Her face was white and her voice husky.

Kathleen turned to her, as if only now fully aware of her presence.

“Yes. He came home most upset and with his clothes ruffled and dirty. I think it must have been very fierce.”

“He told you this?” Caroline tried to keep the fact at bay.

“Yes—you had to know him,” Kathleen explained, totally misunderstanding Caroline’s distress. “He did not tell the truth if it was painful, but neither would he deliberately lie. I knew something was very wrong, and of course I asked him. He said he had had a violent quarrel with Joshua Fielding. But when I asked him the subject, he said I would not wish to know, and kissed me, and went to change from his soiled clothes before retiring.” She shook her head. “Of course when his relationship with—with his mistress came out in the trial, I realized what the quarrel must have been.”

“Yes,” Charlotte said quickly, aching for Caroline, knowing the pain as if it were a tangible thing. Her stomach was clenched, and a little sick. “Yes, I see.” She scrambled for something else to say. She wished they could leave, but it would be pointedly rude, and make a return impossible. And they needed to return. She was convinced there was far more they could learn about Kingsley Blaine which might lead to his murderer, even if it was what they most dreaded to hear. To stop now would be worse than if they had never begun.

“Even so.” She tried to put a lift into her voice, but her throat was so tight it sounded more like a squeak. “Even so, I still think you should not feel any remorse. It was none of it your fault. He was fairly tried.”

“But I did not tell anyone about the quarrel,” Kathleen said, looking from Caroline to Charlotte and back again, her face pale. “No one asked me, and I did not offer it. Do you think it might have made a difference?”

“No,” Charlotte lied. “None at all. Now I really don’t wish to distress you anymore. The last thing I want is for you to think of my visit as a time of anxiety and the raking up of old wounds.”

She was lying, and yet it was certainly true she did not wish to hurt Kathleen, even less now that she knew her better. But Joshua Fielding’s wry, gentle face filled her mind as she tried to imagine it contorted with the hatred that would stab a man to death and then crucify his corpse. It was impossible. And yet he was an actor. It was his art and his living to convey passions he did not feel, and hide those he did.

And more powerful than her own doubt or unhappiness over it was a biting misery for Caroline. The wound would be so deep, so out of proportion to the brief time she had known him. But emotion has little to do with time, and love nothing at all.

Kathleen was talking again, but she did not hear her words. The rest of the visit was spent in more pleasant conversation. Charlotte was forced to drag her mind from her thoughts and concentrate. Caroline could only sit and stare, making the odd remark when civility made it absolutely necessary.

When they took their leave it was full of smiles and thanks, and they went out into the blustery wind with skirts whipping around their ankles and a bleak unhappiness inside, as if the sun had disappeared.