Hyde Park Headsman

3

CHARLOTTE HAD HEARD the newsboys crying out the latest speculation on the Hyde Park murder, but she had given it less of her attention than she usually gave to Pitt’s more sensational cases because her mind was very fully occupied with the matter of plasterwork on the ceiling of the new house. At present she was in the middle of what was to be the withdrawing room, and staring upwards. The builder, a thin, lugubrious man in his thirties with sad eyes and a long nose, was standing in front of her shaking his head.

“Can’t do it, ma’am. Wouldn’t expect you to understand why, but it just in’t possible. Too far gorn, it is. Much too far.”

Charlotte looked up at the broken plaster on the cornice.

“But it’s only about two feet altogether. Why can’t you just replace that bit?” she asked, as she thought, very reasonably.

“Oh no.” Again he shook his head. “It’ll look like a patch, ma’am. Wouldn’t be right Can’t turn out work like that I’ve got my reputation to consider.” He met her eyes with a clear, indignant gaze.

“No it wouldn’t,” she argued. “Not if you put in the same pattern.”

“Can’t patch old wine bottles with new skins, ma’am. Don’t you read your Bible?” he said accusingly.

“Not when I’m looking for instruction on repairing the ceiling, I don’t,” she replied briskly. “Well, if you can’t do that piece, what about the whole of that side?”

“Ah—well.” He squinted up at it, head on one side. “I’m not sure about that Might be a different pattern, mightn’t it?”

“Can’t you find the same one? It doesn’t look very complicated to me.”

“That’s ’cause you in’t a plasterer, ma’am. Why don’t you ask your husband to explain it to you?”

“My husband is not a plasterer either,” she said with rising irritation.

“No ma’am, I daresay not,” he agreed. “But ’cos ’e’s a man, yer see, and men understand these things better than ladies, if you don’t mind my saying so?” He regarded her with a sententious smile. “Now I wouldn’t understand how to stitch a seam, or bake a cake, but I do know about cornices and the like. And you’ll be wanting a new rose too, to ’ang them good chandeliers from. Gotta watch that, or it’ll spoil the ’ole thing.”

“And how much will a new one be?”

“Well now, that’ll depend on whether you want paper stucco, which is very light, like, and very cheap, and comes at anything from three shillings for one what’s nineteen inches across, to one what’s forty-nine inches across, and it’d be too big for this room, at thirty-two and seven pence ha’penny.” He sucked in his breath noisily and continued. “Or you could have plaster, plain or perforated, which comes at one and sixpence or thereabouts for twelve inches across, right up to four and sixpence for thirty inches across. It all depends upon what you want.”

“I see. Well, I’ll think about it. Now what about the lamp in the hall?”

“Ah well now, that’s different. You could have a real plain twisted-’eart pendant which comes at about four and sixpence each, or the bigger ones at seven and sixpence each.” He shook his head. “That don’t include the globe, o’ course.”

“But that won’t be the one I wanted. I like the one with the engraved glass.”

“Ah—well that’d be a great deal more, ma’am; that’d be fifty-one shillings each, bronzed or lacquered. And now if you want it polished, it’d be fifty-seven shillings.” He sucked at what was apparently a hollow tooth and stared at her.

“I don’t like the other one,” she said adamantly. “It’s vulgar.”

“I just fitted one like that for the lady what lives opposite,” he said with satisfaction. “Very nice it is too. Very nice lady. Her cousin is married to Lady Winslow’s brother-in-law.” He imparted this last piece of information as if it clinched the argument.

“Then she won’t thank me for doing the same,” Charlotte retorted. “What about the finial for the west gable? Can you match the others?”

“I don’t know about that.” He shook his head doubtfully. “You’d be better to replace them all—”

“Balderdash!” said a brisk voice from the doorway. “You find a finial that matches, young man, or my niece will employ somebody who will.”

Charlotte spun around with surprise and delight to see Great-Aunt Vespasia advancing across the room. More strictly speaking, she was Emily’s Great-Aunt-in-law from her first marriage. However, George’s death had made no difference to the closeness of their affection, indeed they grew in each other’s regard with each new turn in their relationship. Now she felt a sharp sense of pleasure that Vespasia had spoken of her as a niece, even though she had no claim to that title.

“Aunt Vespasia,” she said immediately. “How very nice to see you! You have come at the very best moment to give me your advice. I cannot offer you any refreshment. I am so sorry. I can barely offer you a seat.” She felt acutely apologetic, even though she had not invited Vespasia and therefore was not responsible for the situation.

Vespasia ignored her and looked at the builder, who had little idea who she was but had worked on enough houses of the quality to know that in this instance he was now totally out of his depth. This was a lady of a quite different order. She was tall, slender verging on gaunt, but with a face of exquisite bones which still retained much of the marvelous beauty which had made her famous throughout England in her youth. She looked at him as if he himself had been the offending piece of plaster.

“What are you doing about that?” she asked, staring up at the broken cornice.

“Repairing that side,” Charlotte said quickly. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Robinson?”

“If you say so, ma’am,” he replied sullenly.

“Quite right,” Vespasia approved. “And I’m sure if you look hard enough, you will discover a rose that will fit with it quite satisfactorily. What about the dado rail? That is in an awful state. You will need to replace all of it.” She looked at Robinson. “You had better set about finding something suitable. Now be off with you and begin.” She dismissed him without further thought and turned to Charlotte. “Now, my dear, where may we go to leave this man to his business? What about the garden? It looks charming.”

“By all means,” Charlotte agreed hastily, leading the way, opening the French door for Vespasia and then closing it behind her. Outside on the paved terrace the air was soft and there was a scent of bruised grass on the breeze and the smell of hyacinths somewhere just beyond sight.

Vespasia stood very straight, her hair brilliant in the light, her black silver-topped cane in her right hand, not leaning on it so much as resting her hand over it.

“You will need a gardener,” she observed. “At least twice a week. Thomas will never have time to attend to it. How is he taking to his new position? It was past time he was promoted.”

It would not have occurred to Charlotte to tell her anything but the truth.

“Very well, for the most part,” she replied. “But some of his men can be trying. They resent the fact that he was preferred over others who consider themselves just as good. Micah Drummond they could understand. He was a gentleman and it was to be expected, but they find it hard to take orders from Thomas.” She smiled briefly. “Not that he says a great deal to me, I just know it from the odd remark here and there, and sometimes from what he doesn’t say. But no doubt it will mend … in time.”

“Indeed.” Vespasia took a few steps forward over the grass. “What of this latest matter—the wretched man who was beheaded in the park? The newspapers did not say so, but I assume Thomas is in charge of it?”

“Yes, yes he is.” Charlotte looked at her questioningly, waiting for the explanation of her interest.

Vespasia continued to stare at the trees at the far end of the lawn.

“I daresay you remember Judge Quade?” She began quite casually, as if the matter were of no consequence.

“Yes,” Charlotte replied equally nonchalantly. The judge’s sensitive, ascetic face leapt to her mind, and all her emotions crowding in on her, the fierceness of his integrity in the Farriers’ Lane case, the memories he brought with him of a past Charlotte had not even guessed at, and above all the change in Vespasia, her sudden vulnerability, the way she blushed (a thing Charlotte had never seen before), and the laughter and shadows in her eyes.

“Yes, of course I remember him,” she said again. She was about to ask how he was, then stopped just before the words were out. Vespasia was not one with whom she could play such trivial games. It was better to wait in silence for her to say what it was she wished.

“He is very well acquainted with Lord and Lady Winthrop,” Vespasia explained, walking a little farther onto the grass, her skirts catching on the longer, uncut stems.

Charlotte was obliged to follow in order to continue the conversation.

“Is he?” She was surprised. Thelonius Quade was a man of high intelligence and quiet wit. From what Emily had said, Lord Winthrop was quite the opposite. “Socially?” she asked.

Vespasia smiled, her silver eyes light with amusement.

“Hardly professionally, my dear. Marlborough Winthrop does nothing useful whatsoever; but that is not a crime, or half the aristocracy would be up before the bench. Of course, socially, which I imagine was not of Thelonius’s choosing. The man is a monumental bore, and his wife is worse. She has violent opinions, all of which she has borrowed from someone else. She contracts them as some people contract diseases.”

“Did he know Captain Winthrop?” Charlotte asked with mounting interest.

“Only slightly.” Vespasia was standing in the middle of the lawn now, the breeze ruffling the pale green silk of her skirt. Her blouse was of a delicate ivory in the light, and the heavy pearls around her neck hung low across the bosom. Charlotte wondered if she would ever look quite so effortlessly elegant herself.

“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said quietly. “He must be distressed for them.”

“Of course.” Vespasia accepted and dismissed the subject with a small gesture of her head. She moved a few steps farther across the lawn. “The funeral was a family affair, but they will be holding a memorial service for him tomorrow. Thelonius will attend. I thought I would go with him.” She turned and looked at Charlotte with the first gleam of a smile in her eyes. “I wondered if you would care to accompany us?”

It would be indelicate, and quite unnecessary, to ask Vespasia’s purpose in such an invitation. It was not the Winthrops she was thinking of, nor Thelonius Quade, and certainly not herself. In the past she had been involved in many social crusades, and worked with tireless passion. She had several times exhibited the same energy and devotion to meddling in Pitt’s cases, assisting Charlotte and Emily in places and with people they could not reach alone. It would be clumsy to say she enjoyed it; it was both different and more than that. But there was no mistaking the light in her eyes now.

“It is very ugly,” Charlotte said tentatively, catching up with her and looking at the slender daffodil spears under the trees.

“There is a note of stridency in the newspapers,” Vespasia added. “It is imperative that Thomas establish himself in his new position as early as possible. This is an extraordinary case, or at least it has all the appearance of being so. We must do what we can.”

“The newspapers are speaking of a madman loose,” Charlotte agreed unhappily.

“Balderdash!” Vespasia dismissed the idea. “If there was a lunatic capering around Hyde Park cutting people’s heads off we should have heard more of him by now.”

“Someone he knew?” Charlotte asked, her attention sharpening. She forgot the daffodils, and was only dimly aware of the wind in the branches and the brilliant sprays of forsythia in bloom.

“That seems an inevitable conclusion,” Vespasia agreed. “Thelonius informs me he was not robbed. Or so Lord Winthrop says.”

Charlotte’s imagination began to race. She started with what seemed to be to her the obvious.

“His wife has a lover? Or he has a mistress, and her husband …”

“Oh really!” Vespasia said impatiently. “Oakley Winthrop might not have been an imaginative man, but neither was he a cretin. If you have the misfortune to be taking a midnight stroll in the park and to meet your wife’s lover carrying a cutlass, you do not go and climb into a pleasure boat with him. To discuss what? The equitable division of her favors?”

Charlotte smothered a giggle but held her ground. “Perhaps he was an acquaintance anyway, and Winthrop did not know of the arrangement,” she suggested. “If it was his wife’s lover, she may have been discreet. After all, Captain Winthrop will have been away a good deal of the time. It may never have occurred to him that she could have considered any other man.”

“Then if he was unaware of the situation, why on earth would the wretched man murder him?” Vespasia asked, her eyebrows arching even higher. “That seems absurd, and quite unnecessary.”

“Then perhaps it was his mistress’s husband?” Charlotte thought aloud. “He may have been a very jealous man.”

“Then why should Winthrop sit down in a boat with him in the middle of the night?” Vespasia whisked a long stem of grass with her stick.

“Perhaps he didn’t …” Charlotte started, then realized it was foolish before she finished.

“His mistress was an innocent?” Vespasia said with a smile both tolerant and amused. “I doubt it. Not so innocent as to be unaware of her husband’s nature.” She turned and began to walk back up the long lawn towards the house. “No, the more one looks at this, the more bizarre it appears. I think Thomas may need such assistance as we can give him.” She kept her expression almost without enthusiasm, but not even her strength of will could entirely disguise the inner energy that burned at the thought.

“Then I shall most certainly come with you to the memorial service,” Charlotte accepted without further hesitation. “At what time shall I be ready?”

“I shall send a carriage for you at a quarter past ten,” Vespasia said immediately. “And my dear, the next time you buy a new outfit, I should make it black if I were you.” Her eyes gleamed. “It seems to be de rigueur for your husband’s occupation.”

Actually Charlotte sent an urgent message to Emily to request that she might borrow something suitable. She really had no extra money above that which was needed for the house. With new plasterwork, new finials, and several new fire tiles to be purchased, among a number of other things, every halfpenny must be put to the best use.

Emily was very happy to oblige, on condition, not open to negotiation, that Charlotte tell her every single detail of the case and include her in all future efforts. For this she would be willing to lend her any garment she liked throughout the duration of the endeavor.

Therefore at ten o’clock the next morning Charlotte was looking radiant, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright, when Caroline Ellison arrived in a whirl of chocolate-and-gold-colored silks and a hat reminiscent of a turban.

“Good morning, Mama!” Charlotte said in surprise, both at the hat and at Caroline’s unheralded arrival. It would be quite needless to ask if there were anything wrong; Caroline’s face was shining with well-being.

“Good morning, my dear,” Caroline responded, looking around Charlotte’s bedroom, where they were as Charlotte put the finishing touches to her hair. “You look very well, but I am afraid a little funereal. Could you not put a touch of something brighter, at least around your neck? All this somberness may be fashionable, but it is a little extreme, don’t you think?”

“It’s not in the least fashionable,” Charlotte said with astonishment. “Total black—in April!”

Caroline brushed it aside with a wave of her hand. “I have quite lost touch with fashion lately. Anyway, it still needs a little color. What about something different, unexpected? When I think of it, red is rather ordinary.” She glanced around. “What about—oh, what do people not put with black?” She held up her hand against interruption while she thought. “I know—saffron. I have never seen anyone with black and saffron.”

“Not anyone with a looking glass, anyway,” Charlotte agreed.

“Oh! You don’t like it? I thought it would be rather different.”

“Completely different, Mama. And as I am going to a memorial service, I think the family might well be offended. I hear they are rather conventional anyway.”

Caroline’s face fell. “Oh—I didn’t know. Who is it? Do I know them? I hadn’t heard …”

“You would have read the newspapers.” Charlotte put the last pin in her hair and surveyed the effect.

“I don’t read obituaries anymore.” Caroline perched on the edge of the bed, her skirts draped beautifully.

“No, I expect you read the theater notices and reviews,” Charlotte said with a shade of asperity. She was delighted to see her mother so brimming with life and so obviously happy, but she was never able to banish for long the fear of the misery when it all ended, as it would have to. What about trying to regain the old life then? But she had already said all these things before, as had Emily. This was not the time to pursue it again, especially when she was about to leave in a few moments and could not even try to see the subject to a decent end.

“They are a great deal more uplifting to begin the day than a list of the people one knows who are dead,” Caroline said with a half apology. “And even more so than of those one did not know. Obituaries tend to be rather repetitive.”

“This one wasn’t.” Charlotte enjoyed the drama. “He had his head cut off in Hyde Park.”

Caroline let out her breath in a gasp.

“Captain Winthrop! But you didn’t know him—did you?”

“No, of course not. But Great-Aunt Vespasia’s friend, Mr. Justice Quade, did.”

“You mean Thomas is on the case,” Caroline interpreted.

“I mean that also,” Charlotte admitted, standing up from her dressing table. “It really is very complicated and difficult. I might learn something of use. Anyway, I am going.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“Why did you call, Mama? Was there some special reason?” She began looking through her top drawer for small things she might need, a lace handkerchief, perfume, a hat pin.

“None at all,” Caroline replied. “I have not seen you for several weeks, and I thought you might care to come to luncheon. I thought we could dine out at Marcello’s.”

“A restaurant?” Charlotte looked around in amazement. “Not at home?”

“Certainly a restaurant. It is very good indeed. You should try Continental cuisine some time, Charlotte. It is most broadening to the mind to experience such things.”

“And to the waist, I imagine,” Charlotte agreed without looking at her mother’s figure. She closed the drawer.

“Rubbish,” Caroline said scornfully. “Not if you take the occasional ride or long walk in the park.”

“You don’t ride,” Charlotte replied with a laugh.

“Yes I do! It is an excellent recreation.”

“But you never …”

“I didn’t while your father was alive. I do now!” Caroline rose to her feet. “Anyway, I can see that you are otherwise engaged today. I am not at all sure that a memorial service will be more entertaining, but you are committed to it and cannot possibly change your mind at this point.” She smiled warmly. “We shall go to luncheon another day, when I am free.” She kissed Charlotte lightly on the cheek. “In any case, my dear, at least put a piece of white lace on that dress, or lavender if you have it. You look as if you were the chief mourner. You must not outshine the widow—she has enough to put up with. She should be the center of attention today. People will forget quickly enough, and the poor soul will have to spend the rest of her life in weeds—unless she is pretty, and fortunate.” And quite forgetting that she herself was a widow, she swept out with a smile on her face and a look of blissful optimism.

Charlotte arrived at the church in Vespasia’s carriage and alighted with the assistance of the footman. She felt more than a little self-conscious, since she had not been invited and knew not a soul among the people milling around, greeting acquaintances, nodding gravely and making dire predictions about the state of society. The sooner she found Vespasia and Thelonius, the better. However, she looked extremely handsome in Emily’s black silk, and she knew it. It gave her more confidence than she would otherwise have had in such surroundings. Even the hat, also Emily’s, was extraordinarily becoming, a sweeping brim, wildly asymmetrical, and decorated with pluming black feathers. She saw several glances towards it, admiring from men, envious from women.

Where on earth was Great-Aunt Vespasia? She could not stand here indefinitely without speaking to someone and inevitably explaining herself. She began to look around curiously, partly out of genuine interest, but mostly to appear as if she were expecting someone. Some of these people would be the friends of the late Captain Winthrop, others would be here as a matter of social duty. Was one of them, dressed decently in black, carrying his hat in his hand, the one who had murdered him and left him so absurdly on the Serpentine?

She saw several naval officers in uniform, looking very splendid, their gold braid making them stand out from the plain black of civilians. One large, curiously nondescript elderly man seemed to be presiding over the matter of welcoming and acknowledging people. He must be Lord Marlborough Winthrop, the father. The woman beside him, heavily veiled, was slender and very upright, but that was all that could be distinguished of her. Charlotte fancied she detected an aura of anger, a watching with pent-up rage, uncertain yet in which direction to level itself. But it could as easily have been the self-control of grief and the knowledge of more anguish to come, and inevitably a very public resolution to a most personal loss.

She was still pondering this when Vespasia arrived on Thelonius’s arm. It was not an occasion for smiling, but Charlotte found herself doing so at the sight of Vespasia so graciously accompanied. She had been a widow since long before Charlotte had first met her, years ago, during the grotesque affair in Resurrection Row. And later George’s death had wounded her deeply. He was no more than a great-nephew, but one of the few family she had, and she had been extremely fond of him. And regardless of consanguinity, murder is a dreadful way to die, even without the fear and suspicion that had followed.

Now, on the arm of Thelonius, Vespasia looked serene and confident again, her back as ruler straight as it had been years ago, and there was an imperious lift to her chin as though once again she would defy the world in general, and society in particular, and be perfectly prepared to blaze a trail in whatever direction she chose to go. Those who cared to could follow, and those who did not could go whichever way they pleased.

Thelonius, slender, ascetic, dryly humorous, was at her elbow, his face rendered almost beautiful by the richness of memory which illuminated it as he guided her through the press of people. More and more were arriving, wishing not to be absent from such an occasion, reverent, sympathetic, self-important or hoping for scandal.

Vespasia looked at Charlotte approvingly, but without words. Thelonius smiled at her and inclined his head, and together the three of them made their way into the church, where the painfully slow organ music was already creating the atmosphere of death and something close to decay.

Charlotte shivered. As so often before, her thoughts turned to the anomaly of people who professed a belief in a joyous resurrection meeting together to mark the passing of one, whom most had known only slightly, from where they deemed a vale of tears and into a realm of light. It said little of their estimation of his deserts that they did it with such intense and irrational gloom. One day she would ask a vicar why it was so. An usher with heavy side-whiskers nodded busily and indicated his desire to move them towards their pews. He shifted unhappily from one foot to another.

“Sir! Madam—if I may?”

Thelonius handed him his card.

“Of course. Of course.” The usher nodded. “This way, if you please?” And without waiting to see if they followed, he led the way towards the point where a pew had been kept for them. On the way Charlotte glanced to the right and saw Emily’s fair face filled with surprise, and then swift and complete comprehension, not untouched by amusement.

Vespasia and Thelonius took their seats, and with rather more haste than grace, Charlotte took hers beside them.

The music changed key and a hush fell over the congregation. The service began.

It was not possible during its course for Charlotte to twist around in her seat and observe the faces of anyone behind, and those in front presented only their backs. Rather than draw unwelcome attention to herself, she bent her head in decent prayers and lifted her eyes only to watch the vicar and listen to his sepulchral tones as he eulogized Oakley Winthrop as if he were a departed saint, and exhorted all those present to live worthily of his excellent example. Charlotte dared not look at Vespasia in case she met her glance and read her thoughts, not only of the departed but of the mourners.

Afterwards was a different matter. Everyone rose and trooped out into the sunshine murmuring whatever they felt appropriate, and then she began to search in earnest. Lord and Lady Winthrop were easy to see from the movement of people, the slowing down as they reached them, and the sudden complete hush, momentary embarrassment, and then release as they moved away.

Another group, smaller and somehow less distinguished, was moving in no particular order around a slender, very upright figure. She was only lightly veiled, and looked oddly young and vulnerable. Charlotte took her to be the widow. She would dearly like to have seen her expression, but beneath the veil it was impossible.

“Is that Mrs. Winthrop?” she asked Vespasia.

“I believe so,” Vespasia answered, looking to Thelonius.

“And the man behind her?” Charlotte asked with interest.

“Oh yes.” Vespasia nodded fractionally. “A face to remember. A clarity of gaze, a considerable intelligence, I think. Who is he, Thelonius? A relation, or an admirer?”

Thelonius’s mouth twitched with amusement.

“I’m sorry, my dear, the answer is very ordinary. He is her brother, Bartholomew Mitchell. A man of unblemished character, without pomposity or pretension, so I hear. Very recently returned from Matabeleland. A most unlikely suspect for the murder of his brother-in-law.”

“Mmm.” Vespasia remained thoughtful.

“Now there’s a man about whom you could not possibly say that.” Charlotte looked across at the large figure smiling and nodding as he acknowledged acquaintances on all sides. “There is a man with pretensions, if ever I saw one. Who is he?” Too late she realized he might have been a friend of Thelonius. “I mean …” She stopped. There was nothing to say that would mend it.

Vespasia bit her lip to conceal her amusement.

“You deserve to be told he is a dear friend,” she replied. “However, I believe he is a prospective member of Parliament, in fact standing against Jack in the by-election. His name is Nigel Uttley.”

“Oh.” Charlotte thought for a moment before continuing. She watched Uttley as he progressed through the crowd, still smiling, until he came to Emily and Jack, then his expression of affability became a mask. The core of it vanished, leaving only the outer semblance. It was impossible to say in what precise way it was different, except that it seemed without life. They were not close enough for Charlotte to hear what was said, but it appeared to be trivialities.

Emily was dressed as beautifully as ever. Black suited her fair coloring and she had an inner glow as though she were only waiting for the memorial service to be over in order to go on somewhere exciting. One felt as if she would shed the black any moment and burst into color.

“I think we should pay our respects to the widow,” Vespasia said with determination. She turned and smiled at Thelonius. “Do you think, my dear, that you would be generous enough to introduce us?”

He hesitated, knowing perfectly well what she intended, even though he was not sure what she expected to achieve.

She preempted his decision with a charming smile of gratitude and set out across the flagged yard towards Mina Winthrop.

Thelonius offered Charlotte his arm, and they followed after.

Mina acknowledged their introduction and accepted their sympathies graciously. All the while Bart Mitchell stood at her elbow, silent but for the civilities of courtesy.

Closer to her, Charlotte’s first impressions were reinforced. She was very fragile, and even through the veil of her widow’s weeds it was possible to see a pallor to her skin.

“How kind of you to come,” she said formally. “We all appreciate it. Oakley had so many friends.” She smiled tentatively. “A great many I confess I never knew. It is most touching.”

“I am sure you will learn of much feeling for him that you were not aware of before,” Vespasia said with an ambiguity that perhaps she had not intended.

“Oh indeed,” Charlotte added quickly. “Sometimes people only express their true regard at such times. It raises a great many emotions we may not fully have realized.”

“Were you acquainted with Captain Winthrop?” Bart Mitchell asked, looking at her narrowly.

“No,” Vespasia answered for her. “My niece came in order to be of support to me.”

Bart drew in his breath, presumably to ask her the depth of her own acquaintance, then met her eyes and changed his mind. What was a reasonable inquiry of Charlotte, of Vespasia would have been an impertinence.

Charlotte was grateful for the rescue, and even more so for the implication of relationship. She found herself smiling, although it was quite inappropriate.

“We are having a small breakfast,” Mina said warmly. “Perhaps you would care to join us, Lady Cumming-Gould?”

“I should be delighted,” Vespasia accepted instantly. “Perhaps we shall have the opportunity to become a little better acquainted.”

It was an invitation for which many debutantes and society hopefuls would have sold their pearls. Mina might not have understood its rarity, but she perceived something of its value instinctively.

“Thank you. I shall look forward to that.”

Vespasia had achieved what she sought, and etiquette required she withdraw and allow time for others to pay their respects. They excused themselves and were barely a couple of yards away when they came face to face with Lady Winthrop. She murmured something about their graciousness in coming, and Thelonius replied that they would see her at the breakfast.

“Indeed?” she said with some surprise. Then she forced a chilly smile. “How nice of Wilhelmina to invite you. I am delighted you are able to come.” But the look she shot her daughter-in-law held no approval at all.

Bart Mitchell moved a step closer to his sister, and his eyes, looking back to Evelyn Winthrop, were guarded and full of warning.

“How interesting,” Vespasia said when they were alone in Thelonius’s carriage on their way, not to Oakley Winthrop’s house, but to his parents’ house in Chelsea. “How often grief divides a family instead of uniting it. I wonder why, in this instance?”

“Very often a great deal of grief is anger, my dear,” Thelonius observed, sitting opposite them, his back to the driver, his fingers locked over the top of his cane. “One feels loneliness, resentment for the pain of it, guilt for all the things one did not do or say, and fear of the enormity of death. There is nothing to be done, no appeal against it. That anger can turn against those to whom one should be the closest. People occasionally feel isolated in their loss, as if no one else grieves as they do, indeed as if they do not grieve enough.”

Vespasia smiled at him, her eyes gentle and bright. “Of course you are right. But I cannot help it crossing my mind that perhaps Lady Winthrop knows or suspects something that we do not.”

Thelonius’s smile was full of amusement. He braced himself very slightly against the movement as the carriage turned a corner and straightened again.

“She may indeed know something, but I doubt even she could suspect anything that you have not imagined,” he agreed.

Vespasia had the grace to blush, very faintly indeed, but her eyes did not waver.

“Indeed,” she said dryly. “What do you know of the Winthrops’ marriage? I confess, I had not ever heard of them. Who are the Mitchells?”

Charlotte looked from one to the other of them.

“Very ordinary, I believe,” he replied. “Evelyn Winthrop regarded the marriage as less than satisfactory. Wilhelmina had nothing to offer but herself and a small dowry. As for Bartholomew Mitchell, he went out to Africa in the Zulu war of ’79, I believe, and has spent most of the eleven years since then either in Southern Africa or north in Mashonaland or thereabouts. Soldier, of course, to begin with. Something of an adventurer, I suppose.” A shadow of amusement crossed his face. “But none the worse for that. Certainly he did not add to his sister’s value in marriage.”

“Then Captain Winthrop was in love?” Vespasia said with warmth and a flicker of surprise.

He looked at her very steadily. “I wish I could say so, but I think it was more a matter of realism. He was not without pretensions, but they were to naval office and personal power rather than social distinction. The Winthrops are not really …” He stopped, uncertain what word to use without a certain crassness.

“Out of the top drawer?” Charlotte suggested.

“Not even out of the second,” he conceded with humor. “But aren’t they supposed to be related to all sorts of people?”

“My dear, if a distinguished person has a dozen children, one will find, in a generation or two, that half the Home Counties are related to him,” Vespasia pointed out. She turned again to Thelonius. “But you used the term ‘realism.’ Was it a fortunate marriage? Are there children?”

“I believe there are two or three, all daughters. One died young, the other two are recently married.”

“Married!” Charlotte was amazed. “But she looks—so …”

“She was seventeen when she married Oakley, and her daughters also married at about that age.”

“I see.” She pictured a man disappointed without sons, although perhaps the judgment was unjust. Why had the daughters both married so young? Love? Or a desire to grasp the first opportunity that was remotely acceptable? What had that family been like when the doors were closed and the polite faces set aside?

There was no more time for speculation because they had arrived at the house of Lord and Lady Winthrop. They alighted and were welcomed in by servants in full mourning and shown into a large reception room with a table laden with rich food set out on exquisite linen. Silver gleamed discreetly under the chandeliers, fully lit even though the day was bright, because the curtains were half closed and the blinds lowered as a sign of death in the house. The most conspicuous ornamentation in the room were bowls and sheafs of white lilies, and the cloying perfume of them was redolent of the hothouse.

“Good heavens, it looks like an undertaker’s,” Vespasia said under her breath, at the same time smiling as she saw Emily and Jack Radley only a few yards away. “Heaven knows what the funeral must have been like! Hello, Emily, my dear. You look quite charming, and obviously in excellent health. How is Evangeline?”

“Growing, and really quite well behaved,” Emily replied with pride. “She is very pretty.”

“What a surprise!” Vespasia did not try to conceal her humor. “Jack, how is your campaign progressing? How long is it until the by-election?”

Jack gave her his entire attention. He had made his way in society on his good looks and very considerable charm before marrying Emily, but Vespasia was one person with whom he would never have dared anything but the utmost honesty. He knew she had been George’s great-aunt, and although he entertained no doubts that Emily loved him, in his darker moments he still walked in George’s shadow. George had been handsome too, and his charm was that of a man who was born to wealth, title and effortless grace. That he had achieved nothing personal was canceled by his early death.

“A little under five weeks, Lady Cumming-Gould,” he replied gravely. “I think the government will announce it very soon. As for the campaign, I am still very uncertain about that. I have an extremely strong opponent.”

“Indeed? I know little of him.”

“Nigel Uttley,” he replied, watching her face to see if she wished further information or if she was merely making polite conversation. He must have judged the former, because he went on to describe him. “A little over forty, younger son of a wealthy family, but not socially prominent. He has been a strong supporter of the government for a long time, and quite honestly they fully expect him to win.” He pulled a rueful face. “I think they gave him the opportunity as a reward for loyalty in the past.”

“What does he believe in?” she asked perfectly seriously.

He laughed, a spontaneous, infectious sound. “Himself!”

“Then upon what platform is he campaigning?” she amended with a smile.

“Restoring the old values which made us great, in general,” he replied. “More specifically, on imposing law and order in the cities, altering the police force to make them more efficient, harsher sentences for crime …”

“The Irish question?” she interposed.

His amusement was quick again. “Oh no, he is not foolish enough to tackle that one! It brought Gladstone down, and it will probably ruin anyone else who advocates Home Rule, which is the only real solution.”

They were passed by a group of elderly gentlemen murmuring in low voices who glanced at Thelonius and nodded, then proceeded on their way. A naval officer in uniform spoke overloudly in a sudden silence and blushed.

“You won’t catch Uttley committing himself to any grand statements,” Jack continued. “He’d execute a few Fenians with pleasure, and make speeches against anarchy in general, but we can all do that.”

“He is very critical of the police,” Emily said with a glance at Charlotte. “I loathe him for it,” she added cheerfully.

“My darling, you would have to loathe him for something.” Jack put his arm around her. “But I agree, that is an excellent cause. And it gives me some solid foundation on which to oppose him.” He sighed. “Although this latest murder doesn’t help. It appears to be the second grisly lunatic loose in London in two years, and they didn’t catch the first one.”

Emily looked at Charlotte, a question in her eyes.

“Yes,” Charlotte acknowledged. “He is.”

“Thomas is on the case?” Jack said quickly. “Is there any progress? One can hardly ask the family, although Lord Winthrop keeps making dark noises about what he will have done and who he knows.”

“I don’t think it’s a madman at all,” Charlotte replied, her voice sinking lower and lower. “From all that we know, it seems undeniable it was a personal crime. That is why we are here—to help Thomas.”

“Does he know that?” Jack asked.

“Don’t be foolish,” Emily said quickly. “We’ll tell him when we can offer something useful. That will be quite soon enough.” In a single sentence she had included herself in whatever was to be done. Vespasia noted it with dry amusement, but made no comment.

Further discussion was prevented by Nigel Uttley himself joining them. He was not quite as tall as Charlotte had thought, seeing him in the distance, but his blue eyes were sharper and there was an inner energy in him which was initially belied by a casual manner and a self-confidence which masked effort.

“Good afternoon, Lady Cumming-Gould,” he said with a slight bow. “My Lord,” he acknowledged Thelonius, addressing him as if he had been in court. “Really—Mrs. Radley …” He waited to be introduced to Charlotte.

“My sister, Mrs. Pitt,” Emily obliged.

“How do you do, Mrs. Pitt.” He inclined his head in something which was not quite a bow. “How nice of you to support the Winthrops at this wretched time. I fear it is going to become even more unpleasant for them as the days go on. I wish I could believe the police were competent to catch the wretch, but the very fact that such a hideous crime could happen in the heart of London indicates the miserable state to which we have fallen. Still we shall improve on it after the by-election.” He looked at Jack with a smile, but the underlying seriousness of his meaning was quite plain.

“Oh, I am so glad,” Charlotte said with a tart edge to her voice and an expression which was intended to be eager. “It would be wonderful if such things were never to happen again. All London would be grateful to you, Mr. Uttley, indeed all England.”

He looked at her with surprise, his fair eyebrows high.

“Thank you, Mrs. Pitt.”

“How are you going to do it?” she went on, almost without drawing breath, and staring at him with intense interest. He looked back at her, momentarily appalled. “Well—er …”

“Yes?” she encouraged. “More policemen? Perhaps a patrol through the parks all night? It would rather interfere with privacy, I’m afraid.” She shrugged. “But then only those doing something which they would prefer not to have seen would have to worry about that.”

“I don’t think patrols through the parks would be the answer, Mrs. Pitt,” he said, relief gushing through his voice at having some concrete proposal to deny. “What we need is better efficiency when a crime has occurred, so that people keep the law in the first place.”

“Yes, perhaps you are right,” she agreed. “Someone of your quality, your skill and intelligence, would be the answer.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Pitt. That is most generous of you, but I already have a career.”

“As a member of Parliament—should you win.”

“Should I win,” he said with a broad smile and a glance at Jack.

“But even before that moment, Mr. Uttley, you could give us the benefit of knowing what you would do. How does someone with skill and perspicacity, and knowledge of human nature and an understanding of society, how does such a person set about catching someone who commits so dreadful a crime?”

For a moment he looked uncomfortable again, then his face smoothed out. Emily glanced at Jack. Neither Vespasia nor Thelonius moved.

“Madmen are notoriously difficult to catch, Mrs. Pitt,” Uttley said in the silence. “We simply need more police diligence, more men who will work hard and have a better knowledge of what is going on, what people in their areas are strange and dangerous.”

“And if it is not a madman?” she said very quietly.

But this time he was prepared.

“Then we need men in charge who are strong and who have influence! We need men who can command the loyalty of those who have power in their own spheres.” His voice was growing in certainty. “I am sure you can understand that, ma’am, without my having to elaborate what should surely remain discreet?”

Charlotte had a sudden cold feeling that she knew very well what he meant. She glanced at Jack and saw his face tighten. Thelonius Quade shifted from one foot to the other, his skin oddly a shade paler.

Nigel Uttley’s smile beamed even more.

Perhaps she should have said nothing now, but she heard her own voice blindly continuing, filled with an assumed innocence.

“You mean you are uncertain of their loyalty now, Mr. Uttley?”

A flash of exasperation crossed his face, and he kept his voice civil with an effort. “No, Mrs. Pitt, of course not. I mean people who have …” He searched for a word and failed. “Other powers—influence which perhaps they had not thought to exercise in quite that way. A sense of civic and social responsibility a little deeper than mere duty.” His face relaxed, pleased with the way he had described what he meant.

The hum of conversation in the room was rising. There was a clink of glass and the discreet murmur of servants offering food and wine.

“I see,” Charlotte said with wide eyes. “A sort of tacit understanding to betray certain information which at present they would not. A change of loyalties?”

“No!” Uttley’s face was pink. “Certainly not! You have quite misunderstood me, Mrs. Pitt.”

“I’m so sorry.” She tried to sound contrite and knew she had failed. “Perhaps you had better explain again. I seem to be slow of understanding.”

“Maybe it is a subject you are not familiar with,” he said between his teeth, his smile so slight as to be almost nonexistent. “It is not one that lends itself to explanation.”

Charlotte lowered her eyes, then glanced at Jack.

Jack grinned, a charming easy expression without malice, but underneath his apparent ease his attention was total.

“Well, you will need to do better than that in the hustings, or you will confuse the voters as much as you have Mrs. Pitt,” he observed lightly. “I’m sure you don’t want anyone thinking you are advocating a sort of secret society.”

The color spread up Uttley’s broad cheeks and his mouth hardened into a thin line. Vespasia stared at him. Thelonius drew in his breath sharply. Emily waited in anticipation, looking from one to another.

At the far side of the room someone dropped a glass.

“Nonsense, Jack!” Charlotte said in ringing tones. “How can you possibly advocate a secret society in an electoral address? It would hardly be very secret, would it?” She turned to Uttley. “Isn’t that true?”

“Yes,” he said grudgingly. “Of course it is. This whole conversation has become absurd. I was simply saying that with the right people in charge in the police we would get greater respect from certain persons—and with it, cooperation. Surely even the most … naive … can understand that?”

“I can,” Charlotte said with self-mockery, looking at Uttley.

He had the grace to blush, stammer for words to deny his intention, and then fall silent.

“What sort of person would do?” She was relentless. “The disadvantage of gentlemen is that they might not know how to detect, especially ordinary crimes like robbery and forgery and so on.” She turned to Thelonius, Vespasia, and finally back to Uttley. “Or should we have two types of policeman, one for the ordinary criminals, another for the special ones? The difficulty is, how do we tell which crime has been committed by which sort?”

Uttley’s face was tight and hard.

“If you will forgive me, ma’am, this is an excellent subject to illustrate why women are so naturally suited to making home the beautiful place both of art and of spirit, which raises fine children and gives a man the resources from which to fight the world’s battles and deal with the spiritually draining matters of trade and finance. You have a different sort of brain, and that is as nature, and God, intended, for the good and the happiness of humanity.” He smiled without a shred of humor, an automatic wrinkling of the lips. “And if you will excuse me, I must speak to one or two other people. I see Landon Hurlwood over there. It has been charming to meet you, Lady Cumming-Gould, Mr. Quade, Mrs. Pitt.” And without giving any of them a chance to reply, he bowed and turned on his heel.

Charlotte let out her breath in a little grunt of fury.

“There you are, dear,” Emily said gratingly. “Go home and sew a fine seam, bake your bread and don’t think too much. It is unwomanly, and your brain is not built for it.”

“It most certainly is!” Jack said, giving Charlotte an impulsive hug. “Listening to you it is quite obvious that political debate is one of your natural gifts. If I do half as well I shall have him destroyed entirely.”

“You will have made a powerful enemy of him,” Thelonius said very quietly. “He is not a man who will be mocked lightly. But beating him at the polls will be a different matter. People will laugh with you, but not necessarily because they understand what you mean. And believe me, his threat was not idle. He is assuredly a member of the Inner Circle, and will call on it to defeat you if he thinks it necessary.”

The smile died on Jack’s face, and he moved away from Charlotte again.

“I know. But I wouldn’t be Prime Minister if it were at the cost of joining them.”

“You may not be anything without,” Thelonius warned. “That is not to advocate that you do, simply realism.” His eyes became suddenly very intent. “But I give you my word on this, if you do not, I will give you every assistance within my power, for whatever that is worth.”

“Thank you, sir. I accept.”

Emily clasped his arm and squeezed it tightly.

Vespasia moved a step closer to Thelonius, and there was a brilliance in her eyes which might have been pride, or possibly merely affection.

Charlotte turned to watch Nigel Uttley walk towards the tall elegant figure of Landon Hurlwood, who swung around and smiled as he recognized him, as if seeing an old friend. Uttley spoke, but of course she could not hear his words. Hurlwood smiled and nodded. They both greeted a passerby, then resumed their conversation. Uttley laughed, and Hurlwood put his hand on the other man’s shoulder.

Further private speech was prevented by Lord Winthrop requesting silence and then giving a brief address of gratitude to those who had come to honor the memory of his son, and praise of that most excellent man and an expression of the deep loss his passing was to his family, his friends, and indeed he was not unwilling to say, to the country.

There were murmurs of assent, nodded heads, and several distinct looks of embarrassment.

Charlotte looked, as discreetly as she was able to, at the widow, now unveiled and standing white-faced, chin high, next to her brother. Her features were calm, almost beautiful in their repose, and quite devoid of expression. Was she still numbed by shock or grief? Was she a passionless woman, not moved even by this appalling death so intimately close to her? Did she have the most superb, almost superhuman mastery of the outward show of her inner self? Or was it that there were other emotions conflicting within her and canceling each other, frightening her so she dared not show anything at all for fear it betrayed her?

The only flicker Charlotte could see that indicated she had even heard her father-in-law was a slow movement of her pale hand against her black skirt where she reached to clasp Bart Mitchell’s stronger, larger hand, and held it.

His face too was beyond Charlotte’s skill to read. His eyes were very blue and clear on Lord Winthrop’s, but there was no softness in them at all, and certainly nothing that could be taken for grief. His hand still held Mina’s.

Then another very different woman caught Charlotte’s eye; her smooth fair hair shone in the light and the expression on her handsome face was one of rapt attention. Lord Winthrop could not have desired a more admiring audience, or one who seemed more totally at one with him.

“Who is she?” Charlotte whispered to Emily.

“I’ve no idea,” Emily whispered back. “I saw her with the widow earlier on and they seemed very affectionate and definitely quite familiar. I suppose she is a family friend.”

“She doesn’t seem to share the widow’s emotions, or lack of them.”

“Maybe she was fonder of him than the widow,” Emily suggested. “Perhaps she is what you are looking for. Or at least what Thomas is looking for?”

“A mistress?”

“Ssh!” A thin woman in front of them turned around and glared.

Emily lifted one shoulder a little and stared back, eyebrows raised.

The woman snorted. “Some people have no idea how to behave!” she said loudly enough for Charlotte and Emily to hear.

“Ssh!” hissed a woman a little to the left of her.

“Well!” the thin woman gasped, filled with outrage.

Lord Winthrop finally wound to a close, and footmen began to pass among the guests again, carrying trays of glasses filled with Madeira wine, heavy and sweet. Others came with glasses of white wine for the ladies, or lemonade for those who preferred it.

Emily pulled a face and took white wine. Charlotte hesitated, then chose lemonade. This might call for a clear head. It was certainly not an occasion for enjoyment!

“I must meet the woman with the fair hair,” Charlotte said seriously. “How can we contrive it?”

“I can’t think of a decorous manner,” Emily replied. “I could simply be blunt.”

“In what way?”

Rather than explain, and give Charlotte a chance to refuse, Emily demonstrated exactly what she meant. Excusing herself to pass a group of sober men remembering their days at sea, and what they did or did not recall of Oakley Winthrop, she sailed towards Thora Garrick with Charlotte a yard behind.

“Mrs. Waters!” she exclaimed with delight. “I was so hoping we should have the chance to meet again, although not in these circumstances, of course! How are you?”

Thora looked startled. She regarded Emily with alarm, then, seeing her smiling face and bright eyes, it changed to confusion.

“I am afraid you are mistaken. My name is Garrick. My husband was the late Samuel Garrick, lieutenant in Her Majesty’s Navy. You may have heard of him?”

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry.” Emily apologized profusely. “What a dreadful mistake to have made. Really, I fear my eyesight must be quite at fault. Now that I am closer, I can see that you are not she at all.” She dismissed it with an airy wave. “Indeed, she is shorter and much older than you are, although of course she would not thank me for saying so, so I hope you will never repeat it? It is just that she also has that wonderful coloring.”

Thora blushed with pleasure and uncertainty.

“Do forgive me, Mrs. Garrick?” Emily begged, clasping Charlotte’s arm. “Do you know my sister, Charlotte Pitt? No, of course you don’t, or she would have prevented me from making such a ridiculous mistake.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Pitt,” Thora said nervously.

“Oh—of course, if you are not Mrs. Waters, then you do not know me either,” Emily exclaimed. “I am Emily Radley. I am so delighted to make your acquaintance—that is if you will consider me an acquaintance?”

“Of course. I am very happy to.” Thora gave the only possible answer.

Emily smiled radiantly. “How generous of you! Especially at a moment of grief. Did you know poor Captain Winthrop well? Or is it indelicate to inquire?”

“No, of course not,” Thora denied. “Although I have known him a long time. He served with my dear husband, who was a most outstanding man, not at all unlike poor Captain Winthrop. They both excelled in all manner of fields of endeavor, of the body and of the mind. They both had such a sense of duty, of purpose. Do you know what I mean?”

“Oh, of course,” Emily said quickly. “Some men are immovable from the course of what is right, no matter what temptations are set in their path.”

Thora’s face lit with an inner radiance.

“Exactly! You know it precisely,” she agreed. “One has to be immovable at sea. Mistakes can cost lives. My dear Samuel was always saying that. He would have everything done just so, to the inch and to the minute. Dear Captain Winthrop was the same. I do so admire command in a man, don’t you? Where would the world be if we were all haphazard, depending upon intuition and hoping for the best, as I am afraid I am inclined to do too much of the time.”

“Artists, I expect,” Emily replied with a tiny frown. “And terribly unreliable. I imagine you were very fond of Captain Winthrop, then, if he had so many fine qualities in common with your late husband?”

“I had the highest regard for him,” Thora agreed warmly, but there was the slightest shadow of guilt in her answer. “In fact he was my son’s godfather, you know?” She smiled and turned to her left to indicate a young man with the same fair hair as herself, but the superficial resemblance in feature was almost negated by the difference in expression. The visionary delicacy in her was a serene certainty, as if she could see beyond the masks of the present to some greater truth whose beauty she believed utterly. In him there was still a searching, the pain of guilt and disillusion were marked in his eyes and his lips. He was someone far from the haven of knowledge in which she rested At the moment he was settling himself in a small cleared area with a cello held lovingly in one hand, his bow in the other. “That is he,” Thora said quietly.

“Is he going to play?” Charlotte asked with interest. It seemed so far from the picture of a stiff, dogmatic naval officer which she had had well in her mind.

“Mina Winthrop asked him to,” Thora agreed. “He does play very well, but I think perhaps she asked him because he was so fond of her, and I know it eased the sadness of this whole affair for him that he should be able to contribute in some way.”

“How thoughtful of her,” Emily agreed. “It is remarkable at such a time for her to show so much sensitivity to the feelings of someone else. I do admire that”

“So do I,” Charlotte agreed. “I have barely met her, and yet I feel most warmly towards her.”

“I must introduce you more properly,” Thora said quickly. “After the music …” She stopped as a hush fell over the room and everyone turned towards Victor, perhaps more from courtesy than a real desire to listen. However, when he put the bow to the strings and drew it across, a shudder seemed to pass through the air, and a sound of such aching loneliness, that what had begun as good manners simply became total absorption. He did not play from a sheet of music but from memory, and seemed to draw it from the depths of some awful bereavement of his own.

Charlotte looked at the widow and saw a smile touch her lips as she watched him play. It was a heartrending piece, and yet it did not draw tears from her so much as a calm gratitude. Perhaps she had already wept all she could. Or on the other hand, maybe she was still numbed from the shock of her loss, and its manner.

Lord Winthrop stood very pale-faced and seemed to be keeping his emotions in check with difficulty. Lady Winthrop tried and failed. The tears filled her eyes and spilled over. One or two women moved a little closer as if to protect her, or give her some kind of support by sheer physical nearness.

Thora Garrick, next to Charlotte, stood very straight, her face shining with pride as if it were a military funeral. He might have been playing the Last Post, rather than a lyrical lament in solo voice.

“He is very gifted,” Charlotte said when the last note died away. “He plays with true inspiration.”

“I admit I have never heard him play so well before,” Thora said with some surprise. “Although I suppose what I often hear is simply practice. But he was very close to poor Captain Winthrop. Oakley was so like his own dear father, who passed away in the line of duty several years ago.” Her voice was thick with emotion and her gaze was fixed far away.

“Poor Victor was only seventeen. It is terrible for a boy to grow up without a father, Mrs. Pitt.” She shook her head slightly, frowning. “A terrible thing. The power of example is so great, do you not think? And with all the devotion in the world, a mother cannot give that to a boy. The manliness, the honor, selfless dedication to duty, above all the self-mastery.”

Charlotte had not thought of it in that light. She had had no brothers, and her son, Daniel, was too young to think of such qualities.

Thora did not seem to require an answer. “Poor Oakley gave him that, as much as he could. He was always encouraging him, telling him stories of the navy, and of course he would have given him every assistance to obtain a commission, had Victor been willing.” A shadow of hurt and annoyance passed over her face.

“You must have been very fond of Captain Winthrop,” Charlotte murmured.

“Oh, indeed,” Thora said frankly. “I could hardly help it, he was so like my poor Samuel in all his qualities. A woman has to admire such men, don’t you think? And count herself fortunate to have obtained the esteem of two in her life. And Samuel was so devoted to us. I have to remind Victor of that, or I fear in time he will forget.”

In anyone else Charlotte might have taken Thora’s remarks to mean that her relationship with both men had been of a similar nature, but there was such fervid innocence in her eyes she could not believe it to be more than an idealistic admiration.

But did Mina Winthrop know that? Or was it conceivable she mistook this ardent emotion for love? Was she, beneath that cool, fragile exterior, a jealous woman? And what about her brother? Charlotte looked across the room searching for Bart Mitchell. It took only a moment to find him, standing alone almost in the shadows of one of the great pillars which supported a small minstrel gallery at the side of the room. His eyes were unwavering, and as well as she could judge, following the line of his vision, it was Thora Garrick at whom he was staring.

Was she mistaken in reading it as innocence? Had that heady admiration been too intoxicating for Captain Winthrop’s vanity to resist? And had Bart Mitchell seen it?

Her thoughts were interrupted by Thora Garrick touching her very lightly on the arm. “Now I must introduce you to Mina,” she said quietly in the flutter of applause as Victor ceased playing a second piece. “I am sure you will find her most charming. So totally unselfish, you know.”

And indeed Mina was very gracious, and seemed genuinely pleased to meet Charlotte in a less perfunctory fashion than their previous introduction. After only a few moments they were talking intently about furnishings and decor, a subject in which Mina seemed to have a considerable knowledge.

It was half an hour later, when they had partaken of the excellent food which loaded the heavy oak table and sideboard, that Charlotte rejoined Emily.

“Have you learned anything?” Emily asked immediately. “Of value, I mean.”

“I don’t think so,” Charlotte replied. “More a matter of impressions. I could not help liking Mina Winthrop.”

“Being likable, unfortunately, does not make one innocent,” Emily replied. “And some of the most insufferably tedious people, full of humbug, can be as pure as the day. At least of the crime in which one is interested. Of course they may indirectly have brought about all sorts of disasters …”

“I am not begging the issues of guilt and innocence,” Charlotte responded. “Fascinating though they are. And I know perfectly well that she might be guilty, at least vicariously, through a lover. Oakley Winthrop sounds the sort of man from whom one might well have needed a little relief. Something of a hero, according to Mrs. Garrick.” She moved aside to allow an elderly lady to pass, leaning heavily on her husband’s arm. “Her eyes shine when she mentions his name,” she continued. “Although always in conjunction with her dead husband and the fact that Captain Winthrop stood in for him where Victor is concerned. Doesn’t he play the cello beautifully? I can’t see him striding the quarterdeck shouting commands, can you?”

“If he commanded anything at all, I imagine it would be a musical quartet,” Emily replied. “I don’t think we have accomplished much.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Really, I find Mr. Uttley completely odious. He is so certain of himself. I wish I knew a nice juicy piece of scandal about him, something really delicious which people would laugh about and repeat to everyone else.”

“Well just don’t you be the one to do it,” Charlotte warned with alarm. “It will rebound on you!”

“I know. I know. But it is an awful shame. Now if it were Mr. Hurlwood, I know a lovely piece about him, although of course I have no idea if it is true!”

“Is that important? Since he is not running against Jack?”

“No of course it isn’t, but apparently he has a mistress.”

“How very ordinary,” Charlotte said with disgust. “In fact it’s perfectly tame. He is a very striking-looking man. I am not at all surprised. Do you suppose his wife would be surprised if she knew?”

“She died a short while ago,” Emily replied with certainty. “I suppose it’s not very interesting really.”

“What is Mr. Uttley’s wife like?”

“Really quite nice, in a sort of a way,” Emily conceded grudgingly. “I suppose …”

“Be careful, Emily.” Charlotte became serious. “Jack refused the Inner Circle once. They won’t forgive him for it. I expect Mr. Uttley knows about it. Unless I have everything completely mistaken, Mr. Uttley is a member and will use his influence to beat Jack in any way he can. Don’t do anything to give him a weapon with which to wound you.”

“I won’t,” Emily said with equal gravity. “And believe me, Charlotte, Jack is not the only one in danger. They have no love for the police either, except those of them who are in the Circle themselves. They will make things as difficult as they can for Thomas. And this Winthrop murder will not be solved quickly, I think. If it was someone who knew him, a personal enemy of a very terrible kind, then Thomas has a mighty task ahead of him, and no forgiveness from the public or the government, who cannot afford another embarrassment, and no help from anyone who is of the Inner Circle, because he is not one of them.”

“You are right,” Charlotte said grimly. “Perhaps we had better try a little harder?”

“Well I am with you all the way,” Emily promised. “Anything I can do, or any other help I can give, it is yours.”

“Thank you, thank you, my dear. Now let us go and speak to people and see if we can learn anything further about the late Captain the Honorable Oakley Winthrop, and his family, and those who profess to have come here to mourn him.” And she took Emily’s arm as they moved forward together.