Paragon Walk

Seven

The Soiree was a success; the poet spoke brilliantly. He knew exactly how much to titillate with excitement, to hint at daring and change, to provoke thoughts of the wildest criticism of others, and yet at the same time never to insist on the truly unpleasant disturbance of conscience in oneself. He provided the thrill of intellectual danger without any of its pain.

He was received rapturously, and it was obvious he would be talked about for weeks to come. Even next summer the affair would be recalled as one of the more interesting events of the Season.

But after it was all over and the last guests had taken their leave, Emily was too tired to savor her victory. It had been more of a strain than she expected. Her legs were tired from so much standing, and her back ached. When she finally sat down, she found she was shaking a little, and it no longer seemed to matter a great deal that she had given a party that was a resounding success. The realities had not changed. Fanny Nash was still violated and murdered, Fulbert was still missing, and none of the answers were any kinder or easier to bear. She was too weary to delude herself any longer that it was some stranger with no claim on their lives. It was someone in the Walk. They all had their trivial or sordid little secrets, the ugly sides of life that most people could continue to hide forever. Of course, they were guessed at; no one but a fool thought the surface smile was all there was to anyone. But for other people, where there was no crime, no investigation, they could be allowed to fester silently in the dark places where they had lain hidden, and no one willfully uncovered them. There was a mutual conspiracy, to overlook.

But with the police, especially someone like Thomas Pitt, whether the real crime was discovered or not, all the other grubby little sins would be turned over sooner or later. It was not that he would wish to, but she knew from the past, from Cater Street and Callander Square, that people have a habit of betraying themselves, often in their very anxiety to conceal. It is so easily done, only a word or a panicky, thoughtless action. Thomas was clever; he sowed seeds and allowed them to grow. His subtle, humorous eyes saw so very much-too much.

She lay in her chair, stretching her back, feeling the stiffness in it. Could the child within her make so much difference already? There was a dragging, an awkwardness. Perhaps Aunt Vespasia was right and she would have to loosen her stays. That would make her look thick. She was not tall enough to carry the extra weight gracefully. Funny, Charlotte had looked all right when she was carrying Jemima. But then Charlotte had not had fashionable clothes anyway.

Across the room George was sitting fiddling with the newspaper. He had congratulated her on the party, but now he was avoiding looking at her. He was not reading it; she knew that from the angle of his head, the curiously fixed stare he held. When he was really reading, he moved, his expression altered, and every so often he would rattle the sheets as if he were having a conversation with them. This time he was using the paper as a shield, to avoid the necessity of speaking. He could at once be both absent and present.

Why? There was nothing she wanted so much as to talk, even if it was about nothing, simply to feel that he wished to be with her. He could not possibly know that the solution would be all right, that it would not go on hurting, and yet she wanted him to say so, to tell her all the comforting words. Then she could repeat them all to herself over and over, till they drove out reason and doubt.

He was her husband. It was his child that made her feel so tired and lumpy and strangely excited. How could he sit there a few feet away and be totally unaware that she wanted him to speak, to say something foolish and optimistic to silence all the clamor inside her.

“George!”

He affected not to have heard.

“George!” Her voice was growing higher and there was a thread of hysteria in it.

He looked up. At first his brown eyes were innocent, as if his thoughts were still on the paper. Then slowly they clouded, and understanding could not be denied. He knew she was demanding something.

“Yes?”

Now she did not know what to say. Reassurance you have to ask for is no reassurance at all. It would have been better if she had said nothing. Her brain told her that, but her tongue would not keep still.

“They haven’t found Fulbert yet.” It was not what she was thinking, but it was something to say. She could not ask him why he was afraid, what it was that Pitt might find out. Would it destroy her marriage? Not anything like divorce, no one divorced, at least, no one decent. But she had seen any number of empty marriages, polite arrangements to share a house and a name. When she had first determined to marry George, she had thought that friendship and acceptance would be enough-but they were not. She had grown used to affection, to shared laughter, little understanding secrets, long, comfortable silences, even habits that became part of the security and rhythm of life.

Now all this was sliding away, like the tide going out, leaving stretches of empty shingle.

“I know,” he replied, with a little frown of puzzlement. She knew he did not realize why she had made such an obvious and silly remark. She had to say something more to justify herself.

“Do you think he’s run away completely?” she asked. “Like to France, or something?”

“Why ever should he?”

“If he killed Fanny!”

His face fell a little. Obviously he had not really considered that.

“He wouldn’t kill Fanny,” he said firmly. “I should think he’s probably dead himself. Maybe he went into town to gamble or something, and had an accident. People do sometimes.”

“Oh, don’t be so stupid!” At last she lost her temper completely. It surprised and alarmed her that she should so suddenly snap. She had never dared speak to him like that before.

He looked startled and the paper slid to the floor.

Now she was a little frightened. What had she done? He was staring at her, his brown eyes very wide. She wanted to apologize, but her mouth was dry and her voice would not come. She took a very deep breath.

“Perhaps you had better go upstairs and lie down,” he said after a moment. He spoke quite quietly. “You’ve had a very heavy day. Parties like that are exhausting. Maybe in this heat it was too much for you.”

“I’m not sick!” she said furiously. Then to her horror the tears started to run down her face, and she found herself crying like a silly child.

There was a second of pain in George’s face, then suddenly the solution washed over him with a wave of relief. Of course, it was her condition. She saw it in him as clearly as if he had spoken it. It was not true! But she could not explain. She allowed him to help her to her feet and gently out into the hallway and up the stairs. She was still boiling, words falling over themselves inside her, and dying before she could make them into sentences. But she could not control the tears, and it was warm to feel his arm around her, and so much better not to have to make all the effort herself.

But when Charlotte called the next morning, largely to inquire how she was after the soiree, Emily was in an unusually sharp temper. She had not slept well and, lying awake in her bed, had thought she had heard George moving around in the next room. More than once she considered getting up and going to him, to ask him why he was pacing, what worried him so much.

But she did not yet feel she knew him well enough to take the rather forward action of going into his room at two o’clock in the morning. She knew he would consider it ingenuous, even immodest. And she was not even sure she wanted to know. Perhaps most of all she was afraid he would lie to her, and she would see through the lies and be haunted by truths she only guessed at.

So when Charlotte appeared looking slender and fresh, her hair shining, unbearably cool, although she was wearing only wash-cotton, Emily was in no mood to receive her graciously.

“I suppose Thomas still knows nothing?” she said acidly.

Charlotte looked surprised, and Emily knew what she was doing, but still could not hold her tongue.

“He hasn’t found Fulbert,” Charlotte answered, “if that’s what you mean?”

“I don’t really care whether he finds Fulbert or not,” Emily snapped. “If he’s dead, I can’t see that it matters a lot where he is.”

Charlotte kept her patience, which only irritated Emily the more. Charlotte holding her tongue really was the last straw.

“We don’t know that he is dead,” Charlotte pointed out. “Or, if he is, that he did not take his own life.”

“And then hide his body afterward?” Emily said with withering contempt.

“Thomas says that many bodies in the river are never found.” Charlotte was still being reasonable. “Or, if they are, they are unrecognizable.”

Emily’s imagination conjured revolting pictures, bloated corpses with their faces eaten away, staring up through murky water. It made her feel sick.

“You are perfectly disgusting!” She glared at Charlotte. “You and Thomas may find such conversation acceptable over the tea table, but I do not!”

“You have not offered me any tea,” Charlotte said with a ghost of a smile.

“If you imagine I shall, after that, you are mistaken!” Emily snapped.

“You had better have something yourself, and try something sweet with it-”

“If one more person makes another polite reference to my condition, I shall swear!” Emily said fiercely. “I do not want to sit down, or take a refreshing drink, or anything else!”

Charlotte was beginning at last to become a little acid herself.

“What you want and what you need are not always the same thing,” she said smartly. “And losing your temper will not help anything. In fact, you will say things you will wish afterward you had not. And if anyone should know the folly of that, I should! You were always the one who could think before you spoke. For goodness’ sake, don’t lose that now when you need it the most.”

Emily stared at her, coldness in the pit of her stomach.

“What do you mean?” she demanded. “Explain what you mean!”

Charlotte stood perfectly still.

“I mean that, if you let your fears drive you into suspicion now, or allow George to think you do not trust him, you will never be able to replace what you have destroyed, no matter how much you may regret it afterward, or how trivial it may all seem when you know the truth. And you will have to prepare yourself that we may never know who killed her. Not all crimes are solved.”

Emily sat down sharply. It was appalling to think they might never know, that they might spend the rest of their lives looking at each other and wondering. Every affection, every quiet evening, every simple conversation, offer of company or help, would be marred by the dark stain of uncertainty, the sudden thought-could it have been he who killed Fanny, or she who knew about it?

“They’ll have to find out!” she insisted, refusing to accept it. “Someone will know, if he is really one of us. Some wife, some brother, some friend will find a clue!”

“Not necessarily.” Charlotte looked at her with a little shake of her head. “If he has been secret so long, why not forever? Perhaps someone does know. But they do not have to say so, maybe not even to themselves. We do not always recognize things, when we do not wish to.”

“Rape?” Emily breathed the word incredulously. “Why in the name of heaven would any woman protect a man who had-”

Charlotte’s face tightened.

“All kinds of reasons,” she replied. “Who wants to believe their husband, or brother, is a rapist, or a murderer? You can prevent yourself from seeing that forever, if you want to badly enough. Or convince yourself that it will never happen again, and it was not really his fault. You’ve seen for yourself, half the people in the Walk have already made up their minds that Fanny was a loose woman, that she invited her own fate, somehow she deserved it-”

“Stop it!” Emily hauled herself up and faced Charlotte angrily. “You’re not the only one who can tell the truth about anything, you know! You’re so smug, sometimes you make me sick! We’re not all hypocrites here in the Walk, just because we have time and money and dress well, any more than all of you are in your grubbly little street, just because you work all day! You have your lies and your conveniences as well!”

Charlotte was very pale, and instantly Emily regretted it. She wanted to put her hands out, put her arms around Charlotte, but she did not dare. She stared at her, frightened. Charlotte was the only person she could talk to, whose love was unquestioned, with whom she could share the secret fears and wants in every woman’s heart.

“Charlotte?”

Charlotte stood still.

“Charlotte?” she tried again. “Charlotte, I’m sorry!”

“I know,” Charlotte said very quietly. “You want to know the truth about George, and you’re afraid of it.”

Time stopped. For motionless seconds Emily hesitated. Then she asked the question she had to ask.

“Do you know? Did Thomas tell you?”

Charlotte had never been any good at lying. Even though she was the elder, she had never been able to dupe Emily, whose sharp, practiced eye had always seen the reluctance, the indecision before the lie.

“You do.” Emily answered her own question. “Tell me.”

Charlotte frowned.

“It’s all over.”

“Tell me,” Emily repeated.

“Wouldn’t it be better-”

Emily just waited. They both knew that truth, whatever it was, was better than the exhaustion of sweeping from hope to fear, the elaborate effort to deceive oneself, the indulging in awful imagination.

“Was it Selena?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Now that she knew, it was not so bad. Perhaps she had known before, but simply refused to say so to herself. Was that really all George was afraid of? How silly. How very silly. She would put a stop to it, of course. She would take that smug look off Selena’s face and replace it with something far less satisfied. She was not sure how yet, or even if she would allow George to know that she knew about it. She played with the idea of letting him go on worrying, allowing the fear to eat into him sufficiently so that he would not in a hurry forget how it hurt. Perhaps she would never tell him that she knew?

Charlotte was looking at her, her eyes anxious, watching for her reaction. She turned back to the moment, smiling.

“Thank you,” she said composedly, almost cheerfully. “Now I know what to do.”

“Emily-”

“Don’t worry.” She put her hand out and touched Charlotte, quite softly. “I shan’t have a quarrel. In fact, I don’t think I shall do anything at all, just yet.”

Pitt continued his questioning in Paragon Walk. Forbes had dug up some surprizing information about Diggory Nash. Yet he should not have been surprized, and he was angry with himself, for having allowed his prejudice to form his opinions for him. He had looked at the outward grace, the comfort, and the money in the Walk and assumed that, because they all lived in the same manner, came to London for the Season, frequented the same clubs and parties, that they were all the same underneath their uniformly fashionable clothes, and behind their uniformly mannered behavior.

Diggory Nash was a gambler with wealth he had not earned, and a flirt, almost by habit, with any woman who was pleasant and available. But he was also generous. Pitt was startled and ashamed of his own facile judgment when Forbes told him that Diggory subsidized a house that gave shelter to homeless women. God knew how many pregnant service girls were thrown out of sober and upright employment every year, to wander the streets and end up in sweatshops, workhouses or brothels. How unforeseen that Diggory Nash, of all people, should have given a meager protection to a few of them. An old wound of conscience speaking, perhaps? Or a simple pity?

Either way, it was with a feeling embarrassment that Pitt waited in the morning room for Jessamyn. She could not know what his assumptions had been, but he knew himself, and that was enough to tie his usually easy tongue and to give him a rare self-consciousness. It was no salve to his mind that it was perfectly possible Jessamyn had no idea of Diggory’s actions.

When she came in, he was amazed again at the emotional impact of her beauty. It was far more than a mere matter of color or the symmetry of brow and cheek. It was something in the curve of the mouth, the challenging blue blaze of her eyes, the fragile throat. No wonder she grasped for what she wanted, knowing it would be given her. And no wonder Selena could not come to terms with subordinacy to this supreme woman. It flickered through his mind, the moment before she spoke to him, to wonder what Charlotte would have made of her if there had ever been a true rivalry between them, if perhaps Charlotte had also wanted the Frenchman? Did any of them love the Frenchman, or was he merely the prize, the chosen symbol of victory?

“Good morning, Inspector,” Jessamyn said coolly. She was dressed in pale summer green and looked as fresh and strong as a daffodil. “I cannot imagine what more I can do for you, but, if there is still something left to ask, of course I shall try to answer.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” He waited until she sat down, then he sat also, as usual, allowing his coattails to fall where they may. “I’m afraid we have still found no trace of Mr. Fulbert.”

Her face tightened a little, a very little, and she looked down at her hands.

“I assumed you had not, or surely you would have told us. You cannot have come only to say that?”

“No.” He did not wish to be caught staring, yet both duty and a natural fascination kept his eyes on her face. He was drawn to her as one is to a solitary light in a room. Whether one wills it or not, it becomes the focus.

She looked up, her face smooth, eyes clear and brilliantly frank.

“What else can I tell you? You have spoken to all of us. You must know everything we know about his last days here. If you have found no trace of him anywhere in the city, either he has eluded you and gone to the Continent, or he is dead. It is a painful thought, but I cannot escape it.”

Before he set out, he had ordered in his mind the questions he meant to ask. Now they seem less ordered, even less useful. And he must not appear impertinent. She could so easily be offended and refuse all answers, and from silence he could learn nothing at all. Neither must he over-flatter; she was used to compliments, and he judged her far too intelligent, even too cynical, to be gulled by them. He began very carefully.

“If he is dead, ma’am, it is most probable he was killed because he knew something which his killer could not afford to have him tell.”

“That is the obvious conclusion,” she agreed.

“The only thing we know that is so monstrous as that is the identity of the rapist and murderer of Fanny.” He must still not patronize her or let her once suspect he was leading her.

Her mouth twitched in bitter amusement.

“Everyone desires their privacy, Mr. Pitt, but few of us need it to the point where we will kill our neighbors to preserve it. I think it would be ridiculous, without evidence, to suppose there are two such appalling secrets in the Walk.”

“Exactly,” he agreed.

She gave a very small sigh.

“So that brings us back to who raped poor Fanny,” she said slowly. “Naturally, we have all been thinking about it. We can hardly avoid it.”

“Of course not, especially someone as close to her as you were.”

Her eyes widened.

“Naturally, if you knew anything,” he went on, perhaps a bit hastily, “you would have told us. But maybe you have had thoughts, nothing so substantial as a suspicion, but, as you say-” He was watching her closely, trying to judge exactly how much he could press, what could be put into words, what must remain suggestion. “-as you say, you cannot dismiss the matter from your mind.”

“You think I may suspect one of my neighbors?” Her blue eyes were almost hypnotic. He found himself unable to look away.

“Do you?”

For a long time she said nothing. Her hands moved slowly in her lap, unwinding some invisible knot.

He waited.

At last she looked up.

“Yes. But you must understand it is only a feeling, a collection of impressions.”

“Naturally.” He did not want to interrupt. If it told him nothing of anyone else, at worst it would tell him something of her.

“I cannot believe anyone in their right mind, in their true senses, would do such a thing.” She spoke as if weighing each word, reluctant to speak at all, and yet pressed by obligation. “I have known everyone here for a long time. I have gone over and over in my memory all that I know, and I cannot believe such a nature could have been hidden from all of us.”

He was suddenly disappointed. She was going to come up with some impossible suggestion about strangers.

Her fingers were stiff in her lap, white against the green of her dress.

“Indeed,” he said flatly.

Her head came up, and there was a flame of color in her cheeks. She took in a deep breath and let it out, collecting herself.

“I mean, Mr. Pitt, that it can only have been someone laboring under the influence of a quite abnormal emotion, or perhaps intoxicated. When they have had too much to drink, people sometimes do things that in sobriety they would never dream of. And I’m told that even afterward they do not always recollect what has happened. Surely that would also account for an apparent innocence now? If whoever killed Fanny cannot clearly remember it-?”

He recalled George’s blank about the night, Algernon Burnon’s reluctance to name his companion, Diggory’s anonymous gambling. But it was Hallam Cayley who had repeatedly been drunk so often lately that he overslept. In fact, Afton had said he had been in an alcoholic sleep at ten o’clock on the very morning Fulbert’s disappearance had been discovered. It was not a foolish suggestion at all. It would explain the lack of lies, of any attempt to mislead or cover up. The murderer could not even remember his own guilt! There must be a black and dreadful void in his mind; he must wonder; in the night terrors must creep out to fill the space with fragments of violence, images, the smell and sound of horror. But more drink would bring more oblivion.

“Thank you,” he said politely.

She took a deep breath again.

“Is a man to blame for what he does in drunkenness?” she asked slowly, a little frown between her brows.

“If God will blame him, I don’t know,” Pitt answered honestly. “But the law will. A man does not need to get drunk.”

Her face did not change. She was continuing with some train of thought that had already begun.

“Sometimes, to cover pain, one drinks too much.” Her words were very careful, weighted. “Perhaps pain or illness or pain of the mind, perhaps a loss.”

He thought immediately of Hallam Cayley’s wife. Was that what she meant him to think? He looked at her, but her face was as smooth now as white satin. He decided to be bold.

“Do you speak of someone in particular, Mrs. Nash?”

Her eyes moved away from his for a moment, and the brilliant blue clouded.

“I would prefer not to speak plainly, Mr. Pitt. I simply do not know. Please do not press me to accuse.” She looked back at him, clear and blazingly frank again. “I promise you, if I should come to learn anything, I shall tell you.”

He stood up. He knew there would be no more.

“Thank you, Mrs. Nash. You have been most helpful. Indeed, you have given me much to consider.” He did not make any trite remarks about having an answer soon. It would be an insult to her.

She smiled very slightly.

“Thank you, Mr. Pitt. Good day.”

“Good day, ma’am,” and he permitted the footman to show him out to the Walk.

He crossed over to the grass on the other side. He knew he was not supposed to stand on it-there was a very small notice to that effect-but he loved the live feel of it under the soles of his boots. Paving stones were insensate, unlovely things, necessary if a thousand people were to walk over them, but hiding the earth.

What had happened in this graceful, orderly Walk that night? What sudden chaos had erupted, and then subsided into so many totally misshapen pieces?

The emotions eluded his grasp. Everything he clutched at fragmented and disappeared.

He must go back to the practical things, the mechanics of murder. Gentlemen such as these in Paragon Walk did not normally carry knives with them. Why had the rapist so opportunely had one with him on this occasion? Was it conceivable that it had not been a blaze of passion at all, but something premeditated? Could it even be that murder had always been the intent, and the rape was incidental, an impulse, or a blind?

But why should anyone murder Fanny Nash? He had never found anybody more innocuous. She was heir to no fortune and was no one’s mistress, nor, as far as he could discover, had anyone shown the slightest romantic interest in her, apart from Algernon Burnon-and even that seemed a very staid affair.

Could it be that Fanny had innocently stumbled on some other secret in the Walk, and died for that? Perhaps without even realizing what it was?

And what had happened to the knife? Did the murderer still have it? Was it hidden somewhere, possibly by now miles away, at the bottom of the river?

And the other practical question-she had been stabbed to death; he could still see in his mind’s eye the thick gore of blood down her body. Why had there been no blood on the road, no trail leading back from the withdrawing room to where she had been attacked? There had been no rain since then. The murderer would have disposed of his clothes, they were easily explained, although Forbes had not been able to find-even with the most diligent questioning-any valet whose master’s wardrobe was depleted or any signs that charred remains had been found in any boiler or fireplace.

But why no blood on the road?

Could it have happened here on this grass or in a flower bed, where it could have been dug in? Or in the bushes where it would not be seen? But neither he nor Forbes had found any sign of struggle, no trampled beds, no broken branches beyond the usual that were explained by a dog, someone stumbling in the dark, a clumsy gardener’s boy, or even a maid and a footman indulging in a little horseplay.

If there had ever been anything, they had not found it or recognized it, and by now it was long covered either by the murderer, or by others.

He was back to reasons and characters. Why? Why Fanny?

His thoughts were interrupted by a discreet cough a few yards away from him, the other side of the roses. He looked up. An elderly and forlorn butler was standing uncomfortably on the path, staring at him.

“Did you want me?” Pitt inquired, affecting not to realize he was standing on the manicured grass.

“Yes, sir. If you please, Mrs. Nash would be obliged if you would call upon her, sir.”

“Mrs. Nash?” his mind flew back to Jessamyn.

“Yes, sir.” The butler cleared his throat. “Mrs. Afton Nash, that is, sir.”

Phoebe!

“Yes, of course,” Pitt replied immediately. “Is Mrs. Nash at home?”

“Yes, sir. If you would care to accompany me?”

Pitt followed him back across the roadway and along the footpath to Afton Nash’s house. The front door opened before they reached it, and they were ushered in. Phoebe was in a small morning room toward the back. A long window looked onto the grass.

“Mr. Pitt!” she seemed almost startled, a little breathless. “How good of you to come! Hobson, send Nellie in with the tray. You will take tea, won’t you? Yes of course. Please, do sit down.”

The butler disappeared, and Pitt sat obediently, thanking her.

“It’s still so dreadfully hot!” She flapped her hands. “I don’t care for the winter, but right now I almost feel I should welcome it!”

“I dare say it will rain soon and be pleasanter.” He did not know how to set her at ease. She was not really listening to him, and she had not looked at him once.

“Oh, I do hope so.” She sat down and stood up again. “This is very trying. Do you not find?”

“You wanted to see me about something, Mrs. Nash?” She was obviously not going to come to the point herself.

“I? Well.” She coughed and took some few moments over it. “Have you found trace of poor Fulbert yet?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Oh dear.”

“Do you know something, ma’am?” It appeared she was not going to speak without being pressed.

“Oh, no! No, of course not! If I did, I should have told you!”

“But you did call me here to tell me something,” he pointed out.

She looked flustered.

“Yes, yes, I admit-but not as to where poor Fulbert is, I swear.”

“Then what, Mrs. Nash?” He wanted to be gentle, but it was urgent. If she knew something, then he needed to hear it. He was stumbling around in the dark as much now as when he had first seen Fanny’s body in the morgue. “You must tell me!”

She froze. Her hands went to her neck and the rather large crucifix hanging there. Her fingers wound on round it, her nails digging into her palms.

“There is something terrible and evil here, Mr. Pitt, something truly appalling!”

Was she imagining it, whipping herself into a hysteria? Did she know anything at all, or was it just vague fears in a frightened and silly mind? He looked at her, her face, her hands.

“What sort of evil, Mrs. Nash?” he asked quietly. Whether the cause was real or imaginary, he would swear the fear was genuine enough. “Have you seen something?”

She crossed herself.

“Oh, dear God!”

“What have you seen?” he insisted. Was it Afton Nash, and she knew it, but, because he was her husband, she could not bring herself to betray him? Or had it been Fulbert, incestuous rapist and suicide, and she knew that?

He stood up and put his hand toward her, not to touch her, but in a half-gesture of support.

“What have you seen?” he repeated.

She started to shake, first her head, in little twitches from side to side, then her shoulders, finally her whole body. She made little whimpering sounds, like a child.

“So foolish!” she said furiously between her teeth. “So very foolish. And now it’s all real, God help us!”

“What is real, Mrs. Nash?” he said urgently. “What is it you know?”

“Oh!” she lifted up her head and stared at him. “Nothing! I think I have lost my wits! We will never win against it. We are lost, and it is our own fault. Go away, and leave us alone. You are a decent man, in your own station. Just go away. Pray, if you want to, but go now, before it reaches out and touches you! Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

“You haven’t warned me. You haven’t told me what to beware of!” he said helplessly. “What? What is it?”

“Evil!” Her face closed, and her eyes were hard and dark. “There is a dreadful wickedness in Paragon Walk. Go away from it, while you can.”

He could not think of anything else to do. He was still searching for something more to say when the maid came in with the tray of tea.

Phoebe disregarded it.

“I can’t leave, ma’am,” he answered. “I have to stay until I’ve found him. But I shall take care. Thank you for your concern. Good afternoon.”

She did not reply, but stood staring at the tray.

Poor woman, he thought outside in the heat. The whole incident, first her sister-in-law and now her brother-in-law, had been too much for her. She had become hysterical. And doubtless she got little sympathy from Afton. It was a pity she had no work to do and no children to absorb her mind and keep it from fancies. There were moments, surprizing and disorienting him, when he was as sorry for the rich as for any of the poor. Some of them were as pathetic, as imprisoned in the hierarchy-welded to their function, or lack of function, in it.

It was late in the afternoon when the Misses Horbury called on Emily; in fact, it was later than was at all suitable for visiting. Emily was more than a little irritated when the maid came to announce them. She even debated with herself whether to say she was unavailable, but since they were close neighbors, and she was obliged to meet with them regularly, it was better not to give offense, in spite of this extraordinary behavior.

They came in in a cloud of yellow, which was peculiarly unbecoming on both of them, although for entirely different reasons. On Miss Laetitia it was too sallow, giving her skin a jaundiced look; on Miss Lucinda it clashed with her sandy yellow hair, lending her the appearance of a rather fierce little bird far gone in the process of moulting. She trailed bright wisps behind her as she bounced into the room, her eyes fixed on Emily.

“Good afternoon, Emily, my dear.” She was unusually informal, in fact verging on the familiar.

“Good afternoon, Miss Horbury,” Emily said coolly. “What a pleasant surprise”-she emphasized the word “surprise”-“to see you.” She smiled distantly at Miss Laetitia, who was standing somewhat reluctantly a little further back.

Miss Lucinda sat down without being invited.

Emily was not going to offer them refreshment at this time in the afternoon. Had neither of them any sense of propriety?

“It doesn’t look as if the police are going to discover anything,” Miss Lucinda remarked, settling herself deeper the chair. “I don’t think they have any idea, myself.”

“They wouldn’t tell us if they had,” Miss Laetitia said to no one in particular. “Why should they?”

Emily sat down, resigned to being civil, at least for a while.

“I’ve no idea,” she said wearily.

Miss Lucinda leaned forward.

“I think there is something going on!”

“Do you?” Emily did not know whether to laugh or be cross.

“Yes, I do! And I mean to discover what it is! I have visited this Walk every Season since I was a girl!”

Emily did not know what answer was expected to this. “Indeed?” she said noncommittally.

“And what is more,” Miss Lucinda continued, “I think it is something perfectly scandalous, and it is our duty to put a stop to it!”

“Yes.” Emily was floundering now. “It would be.”

“I think it is something to do with that Frenchman,” Miss Lucinda said with conviction.

Miss Laetitia shook her head.

“Lady Tamworth says it is the Jew.”

Emily blinked. “What Jew?”

“Why, Mr. Isaacs, of course!” Miss Lucinda was losing patience. “But that is nonsense. Nobody would entertain him, except for business necessities. I think it has to do with those parties at Lord Dilbridge’s. I don’t know how poor Grace bears all of it.”

“All of what?” Emily asked. She was not sure whether there was anything remotely worth listening to in all this.

“All that goes on! Really, Emily, my dear, you must concern yourself with what occurs in your immediate neighborhood, you know. How else can we control it? It is up to us to see that standards are maintained!”

“She has always been very concerned about standards,” Miss Laetitia put in.

“It’s as well!” Miss Lucinda snapped. “Someone needs to be, and there are more than enough of us who are not!”

“I have no idea what is going on.” Emily was a little embarrassed by the obvious meaning between them. “I do not go to the parties at the Dilbridges’, and quite honestly, I didn’t know that they hold any more than most people do in the summer.”

“My dear, neither do I actually ‘go’ to them. And I dare say they don’t. But it’s not the number, it is the nature that matters. I tell you, Emily, my dear, there is something very strange going on, and I mean to uncover it!”

“I would be careful, if I were you,” Emily felt obliged to caution her. “Remember that there have been very tragic occurrences. Do not place yourself in danger.” She was thinking rather more of the sensitivities of those Miss Lucinda might press with her curiosity than of any peril to Lucinda herself.

Miss Lucinda stood up, thrusting out her bosom.

“I am of dauntless courage when I see my duty clearly before me. And I shall expect your help, if you discover anything of importance!”

“Oh, indeed,” Emily agreed, knowing perfectly well she would consider nothing that entered Miss Lucinda’s realm of “duty” important.

“Good! Now I must call on poor Grace.”

And before Emily could find suitable words to point out the lateness of the hour, she gathered Miss Laetitia in her wake and swept out.

Emily was standing outside in the garden at dusk, her face upward toward the evening breeze, the frail, sweet scent of roses and mignonette drifting across the dry grass. There was a single, brilliant star out already, although the sky was blue-gray and there was still color in the west.

She was thinking about Charlotte, knowing she had no garden, no room for flowers, and feeling a little guilty that chance had given her so much for no effort of her own. She determined to find a graceful way of sharing it a little more, without making Charlotte feel aware of it-or Pitt. Apart from the fact that he was Charlotte’s husband, Emily liked Pitt for himself.

She was standing quite still, facing the breeze, when it happened, a shrill, tearing scream that went on and on, shattering the night. It reverberated in the stillness, then came again, sickeningly, thick-throated.

Emily froze, her skin crawling. The evening was heavy with silence.

Then somewhere there was a shout.

Emily moved, picking up her skirts and running back into the house, through the withdrawing room, the hall, and out of the front door, shouting for the butler and the footman.

Out in the front driveway she stopped. Lights were coming on along the Walk, and a man’s voice was calling out two hundred yards away.

Then she saw Selena. She was running along the middle of the road, her hair ragged down her back and the bosom of her dress ripped open, showing white flesh.

Emily started toward her. Already she knew in her heart what it was. There was no need to wait for Selena’s gasping, sobbing words.

She fell into Emily’s arms.

“I’ve been — violated!”

“Hush!” Emily held on to her hard. “Hush!” She was talking meaninglessly, but it was the sound of a voice that mattered. “You’re safe now. Come on, come inside.” Gently she led her, weeping, across the carriageway and up the stairs.

Inside she closed the withdrawing room door and sat her down. The servants were all outside, searching for the man, any stranger, anyone who could not explain themselves-although it did occur fleetingly to Emily that all the man need do was join in the hunt to pass into virtual invisibility!

Maybe when she had time to think, to compose herself, Selena would say less, be embarrassed or unclear.

Emily knelt down in front of her, taking her hands.

“What happened?” she said firmly. “Who was it?”

Selena lifted her face, flushed, her eyes wide and glittering.

“It was awful!” she whispered. “Violent hunger, like nothing I’ve ever known! I shall feel it-and smell it-as long as I live!”

“Who was it?” Emily repeated.

“He was tall,” Selena said slowly. “And slender. And God, how strong he was!”

“Who!”

“I-oh, Emily, you must swear before God you will say nothing-swear!”

“Why?”

“Because,” she swallowed hard, her body shivering, her eyes enormous, “I–I think it was Monsieur Alaric, but- but I cannot be sure. You must swear, Emily! If you accuse him, and you are wrong, we shall both be in terrible danger. Remember Fanny! I shall swear I know nothing!”