Rutland Place

Outside in the street Pitt walked slowly along, trying to compose his thoughts. Everything so far indicated some private grief, nursed to herself, that had finally overwhelmed Mina Spencer-Brown and driven her to take, quite deliberately, an overdose of something she already possessed. Probably it would prove to be her husband’s medicine containing the belladonna, which Dr. Mulgrew had spoken of.

But before he allowed it to rest, he must ask the other women who had known her. If anyone was aware of her secret, it would be one of them, either from some imparted confidence or merely from observation. He had learned how much a relatively idle woman could perceive in others simply because she had no business and few duties to occupy her. People were her whole concern: relationships, secrets, those to be told and those to be kept.

He called on Ambrosine Charrington first, because she was the farthest away and he wanted to walk. In spite of the thickening rain he was not yet ready to face anyone else. Once, he even stopped altogether as a ginger cat stalked across the footpath in front of him, shook himself in disgust at the wet, and slipped into the shelter of the shrubbery. Perhaps, Pitt thought, he should not disturb the slow settling of grief. Maybe it was no subject for police, and he should go now, turn and walk away, catch the omnibus back to the police station, and deal with some theft or forgery until Mulgrew and the police surgeon put in their reports.

Still thinking about it, without having consciously made any decision, he began to walk again. The rain was gathering in vehemence and ran in cold streaks inside his collar and down his flesh, making him shudder. He was glad to reach the Charringtons’ doorstep.

The butler received him with faint displeasure, as if he were a stray driven in by the inclement weather rather than a person who had any place there. Pitt considered the hair plastered over his forehead, the wet trousers flapping around his ankles, and the one bootlace broken, and decided that the butler’s look of disapproval was not unwarranted.

Pitt forced himself to smile. “Inspector Pitt, from the police,” he announced.

“Indeed!” The butler’s look of polite patience vanished like sun behind a cloud.

“I would like to see Mrs. Charrington, if you please,” Pitt continued. “It is with regard to the death of Mrs. Spencer-Brown.”

“I don’t believe—” the butler began, then looked more closely at Pitt’s face and realized protestations were only going to prolong the interview, not end it. “If you come into the morning room, I will see if Mrs. Charrington is at home.” It was a fiction Pitt was well used to. It would be discourteous to say, “I will ask her if she will see you,” although he had been told so bluntly often enough.

He had barely sat down when the butler returned to escort him to the withdrawing room, where there was a fine fire dancing in the grate and three bowls of flowers in jardinières by the wall.

Ambrosine sat bolt upright on the green brocade love seat and looked Pitt over from hair to boots with interest.

“Good morning, Inspector. Do be good enough to sit down and remove your coat. You seem more than a little wet.”

He obeyed with pleasure, handing the offending garment to the butler, then arranging himself in an armchair so as to absorb the full benefit of the fire.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said with feeling.

The butler retired, closing the door behind him, and Ambrosine raised her fine eyebrows.

“I am told you are inquiring into poor Mrs. Spencer-Brown’s death,” she said. “I am afraid I know nothing whatsoever of interest. In fact, how little I know is quite amazing in itself. I would have expected to hear something. One has to be remarkably clever to keep a secret in Society, you know. There are many things that are not spoken of which would be in unforgivable taste to mention, but you will usually find that people know, all the same. There is a certain smugness in the face!” She looked at him to see if he understood, and was evidently satisfied that he did. “It is infinitely pleasing to know secrets, especially when others are aware that you do—and they do not.”

She frowned. “But I have not observed this attitude lately in anyone but Mina herself! And I never really knew whether she had any great knowledge or merely wished us to think so!”

He was equally puzzled. “Do you not think that someone might be prepared to speak now that a death is involved,” he said, “to avoid misunderstandings, and perhaps even injustice?”

She gave a weary little smile. “What an optimist you are, Inspector. You make me feel very old—or at least as if you must be very young. Death is the very best excuse of all to hide things forever. Few people have the least objection to injustice—the world is run on it. And, after all, it is part of the creed: ‘De mortuis nil nisi bonum.’ ”

He waited for her to explain, although he thought he knew what she meant.

“‘Speak no ill of the dead,’ ” she said bleakly. “Of course I mean Society’s creed, not the Church’s. A very charitable idea, at first glance, but it leaves all the weight of the blame upon the living—which, of course, is what it is designed to do. Whoever took any joy from hunting a dead fox?”

“The blame for what?” he asked her soberly, forcing himself not to be diverted from the issue of Mina.

“That depends upon whom we are discussing,” she replied. “In the case of Mina, I really do not know. It is a field in which I would have expected you to be far more knowledgeable than I. Why are you concerned in the matter at all? To die is not a crime. Of course I appreciate that to kill oneself is—but since it is obviously quite unprosecutable, I fail to see your involvement.”

“My only interest is to make certain that that is what it is,” he answered. “A matter of her having taken her own life. No one appears to know of any reason whatsoever why she should have done so.”

“No,” she said thoughtfully. “We know so little about each other, I sometimes wonder if we even know why we do the important things. I don’t suppose it is the reason that appears— like money, or love.”

“Mrs. Spencer-Brown seems to have been very well provided for.” He tried a more direct approach. “Do you suppose it could have been anything to do with an affaire of love?”

Her mouth quivered with a suppressed smile.

“How delicate of you, Inspector. I have no idea about that, either. I’m sorry. If she had a lover, then she was more discreet than I gave her credit for.”

“Perhaps she loved someone who did not return her feelings?” he suggested.

“Possibly. But if all the people who ever did were to kill themselves, half of London would be occupied burying the other half!” She dismissed it with a lift of her fingers. “Mina was not a melancholy romantic, you know. She was a highly practical person, and fully acquainted with the realities of life. And she was thirty-five, not eighteen!”

“People of thirty-five can fall in love.” He smiled very slightly.

She looked him up and down, judging him correctly to within a year.

“Of course they can,” she agreed, with the shadow of an answering smile. “People can fall in love at any age at all. But at thirty-five they have probably had the experience several times before and do not mistake it for the end of the world when it goes amiss.”

“Then why do you think Mrs. Spencer-Brown killed herself, Mrs. Charrington?” He surprised himself by being so candid.

“I? You really wish for my opinion, Inspector?”

“I do.”

“I am disinclined to believe that she did. Mina was far too practical not to find some way out of whatever misfortune she had got herself into. She was not an emotional woman, and I never knew anyone less hysterical.”

“An accident?”

“Not of her making. I should think an idiotic maid moved bottles or boxes, or mixed two things together to save room and created a poison by mistake. I daresay you will never find out, unless your policeman removed all the containers in the house before the servants had any opportunity to destroy or empty them. If I were you, I shouldn’t worry myself—there is nothing whatsoever you can do about it, either to undo it or to prevent it happening again somewhere else, to somebody else.”

“A domestic accident?”

“I would think so. If you had ever been responsible for the running of a large house, Inspector, you would know what extraordinary things can happen. If you were aware what some cooks do, and what other strange bodies find their way into the larder, I daresay you would never eat again!”

He stood up, concealing an unseemly impulse to laugh that welled up inside him. There was something in her he liked enormously.

“Thank you, ma’am. If that is indeed what happened, then I expect you are right—I shall never know.”

She rang the bell for the butler to show Pitt out.

“It is one of the marks of wisdom to learn to leave alone that which you cannot help,” she said gently. “You will do more harm than good threshing all the fine chaff to discover a grain of truth. A lot of people will be frightened, perhaps made unemployable in the future, and you will still not have helped anyone.”

He called on Theodora von Schenck and found her an utterly different kind of woman: handsome in her own way, but entirely lacking the aristocratic beauty of Ambrosine or the ethereal delicacy of Eloise. But more surprising than her appearance was the fact that, like Charlotte, she was busy with quite ordinary household chores. When Pitt arrived, she was counting linen and sorting into a pile the things that required mending or replacement. In fact, she did not seem to be ashamed that she had put some aside to be cut down into smaller articles, such as pillowcases from worn sheets, and linen cloths for drying and polishing from those pieces that were smaller or more worn.

However, for all her frankness, she was unable to offer him any assistance about the reasons for Mina’s death. She found the idea of suicide pitiful, expressing her sorrow that anyone should reach such depths of despair, but she did not deny that sometimes it did happen. On the other hand, since she had not known Mina well, she was aware of nothing at all to bring her to such a state. Theodora herself was a widow with two children, which reduced her social connections considerably, and she preferred to devote her time to her home and children rather than making social calls or attending soirées and such functions; therefore she heard little gossip.

Pitt left no wiser, and certainly no happier. If he could feel certain that there was some unresolved tragedy, as Tormod Lagarde had seemed convinced, then he would be satisfied to leave it decently alone. On the other hand, Ambrosine Charrington had been sure that such a thing was utterly out of character. If it had been some preposterous accident, should he persist until he had done all he could to discover precisely what? Did he owe it to Mina herself? To be buried in a suicide’s grave was a disgrace, a stigma not easy to bear for her survivors. And did he perhaps owe it to Alston Spencer-Brown to show him that his wife had not been so unhappy as to prefer death to life? Might not Spencer-Brown go on torturing himself with hurt and confusion in the belief that she had loved someone else and found life insupportable without him? And other people—would they believe something secret and perhaps obscure about Alston that had driven his wife to such an end?

Was it possible that no matter how ugly, or how expensive, the facts were better? The truth deals only one wound, but suspicions a thousand.

Because Theodora had mentioned that Amaryllis and she were sisters, Amaryllis Denbigh was a complete surprise to Pitt. Without giving it conscious thought, he had been expecting someone similar, and it was a faintly unpleasant readjustment to meet a woman younger, not only in years but jarringly so in fashion, manner, and deportment.

She met him with cool civility, but the spark of interest was in her eyes and in the suppressed tightness of her body. He never for a moment feared that she might decline to talk. There was something hungry in her, something seeking, and yet at the same time contemptuous of him. She had not forgotten that he was a policeman.

“Of course I understand your situation, Inspector—Pitt?” She sat down and arranged her skirts with white fingers that stroked the silk delicately; he could almost feel its rippling softness himself, as if it slid cool beneath his own skin.

“Thank you, ma’am.” He eased himself into the chair across the small table from her.

“You are obliged to satisfy yourself that there has been no wrong done,” she reasoned. “And naturally that requires you to discover the truth. I wish I could be of more assistance to you.” Her eyes did not leave his face, and he had the feeling she knew every line of it, every shade. “But I fear I know very little.” She smiled coolly. “I have only impressions, and it would be less than fair to represent them as facts.”

“I sympathize.” He found the words hard to say, for no reason that he could frame. He made an effort to concentrate his mind upon Mina, and his reason for being here. “Yet if anyone had known facts, surely they would have prevented the tragedy? It is precisely because there are only impressions and understandings that have come with the wisdom of hindsight that these things occur so startlingly, and we are left with mysteries and perhaps unjust beliefs.” He hoped he was not being sententious, but he was trying to follow her own line of reasoning and convince her to speak. He believed he could judge what to trust and what to discard as malicious or unrelated.

“I had not thought of it like that.” Her eyes were round and blue and very direct. She must have looked much like this in feature and expression when she was still in pigtails and dresses to her knees: the same frankness, the same slightly bold interest, the same softness of cheek and throat. “Of course you are quite right!”

“Then perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me of your impressions?” he invited, disliking himself for it even as he spoke. He despised the sort of mischievous speculation that he was encouraging—indeed would listen to with the same eagerness as a gossip selecting dirt to relish and refine before whispering it with laughter and deprecation to the next hungry ear.

She was too subtle to excuse herself again; to do so would imply she needed excuse. Instead she fixed her eyes on a bowl of flowers on a side table against the wall and began to speak.

“Of course Mina—that is, Mrs. Spencer-Brown—was very fond of Mr. Lagarde, as I expect you know.” She did not look back at him. The temptation was there; he saw it in the tightening of her neck, but she resisted it. “I do not, for one moment, mean to imply anything improper. But there are always people who will misunderstand even the most innocent of friendships. I have wondered once or twice if there was someone who so misunderstood Mina’s regard, and perhaps was caused great unhappiness by it.”

“Such as who?” he asked, a little surprised. It was a possibility he had not thought of: a simple misunderstanding leading to jealousy. He had only considered an unrequited love.

“Well, I suppose the obvious answer is Mr. Spencer-Brown,” she replied, facing him at last. “But then the truth is not always the obvious, is it?”

“No,” he agreed hastily. “But if not him, then who?”

She breathed a deep sigh and appeared to reflect for a few moments.

“I really don’t know!” She lifted her head suddenly as if she had newly made up her mind about something. “I imagine it is possible—” She stopped. “Well, all sort of other things—other people? I know Inigo Charrington was very attached to Eloise at one time. She would not even consider him. I’ve no idea why! He seems pleasing enough, but to her it was as if he did not exist in that sense. She was civil enough to him, naturally. But then one is!”

“I don’t see what that has to do with Mrs. Spencer-Brown’s death,” he said frankly.

“No.” She gave him a wide, blue look. “Neither do I. I expect it has nothing at all. I am only seeking possibilities, people who might have said something at one time or another which could have given rise to misunderstanding. I did tell you, Inspector, that I knew nothing! You asked me for my impressions.”

“And your impression is that Mrs. Spencer-Brown was in normally good spirits as far as you knew?” Without intending to, he had used Tormod’s words.

“Oh yes. If something happened to distress her, it must have occurred quite suddenly, without any warning. Maybe she learned something appalling?” Again her eyes were wide and round.

“Mr. Lagarde says she was not at all upset when she left his house,” he pointed out. “And from the hour her servants have reported, it appears she went straight home.”

“Then perhaps she met someone in the street? Or there was a letter waiting for her when she arrived?”

A letter was something that had not occurred to him. He should have asked the servants if there had been any messages. Perhaps Harris had thought of it.

It was too late to cover his mistake; she had seen it in his face. Her smile became surer.

“If she destroyed it, as indeed would be the natural thing,” she said softly, “then we shall never know what it contained. And perhaps that is best, do you not think?”

“Not if it was blackmail, ma’am!” he said tartly; he was angry with himself, and with her for seeing what he had not, and for the feeling he had that it amused her.

“Blackmail!” She looked startled. “What a terrible idea! I can hardly bear to think you are right. Poor Mina! Poor, poor woman.” She took a deep breath and tightened her fingers on the silk across her thighs, clasping till the knuckles shone pale. “But I suppose you know more about these things than we do. It would be childish to close one’s eyes. The truth will not go away for ignoring it, or we could get rid of everything unpleasant simply by refusing to look at it. You must have patience with us, Inspector, if we see only reluctantly, and more slowly than we should. We have been used to the easier things in life, and such ugliness cannot always be acknowledged without a little period of adjustment. Perhaps even some force?”

He knew what she said was true, and his reason applauded her. Perhaps he had been unfair in his judgment. Prejudice was not confined to the privileged. He knew it in himself: the bitter aftertaste of opinions forced back and found unjust, formed in envy or fear, and the need to rationalize hate.

“Of course.” He stood up. He wanted no more of the interview. She had already given him more than enough to consider. And he had mentioned blackmail rather to shock her than because he really thought it a possibility. Now he was obliged to recognize it. “As yet I know of no truth, pleasant or unpleasant, so the less that is said the less pain that will be caused. It may well have been no more than a tragic accident.”

Her face was quite calm, almost serene, with its pink and white coloring and girlish lines.

“I do hope so. Anything else will increase the distress for everyone. Good day to you, Inspector.”

“Good day, Mrs. Denbigh.”

He had put the matter out of his mind and was working on a number of fires, two of which were in his area and were probably arson, when at half past four in the afternoon a constable with black hair plastered neatly to his head with water knocked on his door and announced that there was a visitor, a gentleman of quality.

“Who is it?” Pitt was expecting no one, and his immediate thought was that the man had been misdirected from the Chief Superintendent’s office and they would be able to be rid of him with a few words of assistance.

“A Mr. Charrington, sir,” the constable answered. “A Mr. Lovell Charrington, of Rutland Place.”

Pitt put the paper he was reading aside, facedown, on the desk.

“Ask him to come in,” he said with a feeling of misgiving. He could imagine no reason at all why Lovell Charrington should come to the police station, unless it was to impart something both secret and urgent. Regarding any ordinary event, he could either have sent for Pitt to attend upon him or simply waited until he returned in the ordinary course of the investigation.

Lovell Charrington came in with his hat still on, beaded with rain, and his umbrella folded but untied, hanging from his hand. His face was pale, and there was a drop of water on the end of his nose.

Pitt stood up. “Good afternoon, sir. What can I do for you?”

“You are Inspector Pitt, I believe?” Lovell said stiffly. Pitt had the impression that he did not mean to be rude, simply that he was awkward, torn between desire to say something difficult for him and a natural revulsion at the place. Almost certainly he had never been inside a police station before, and horrifying ideas of sin and squalor were burning in his imagination.

“Yes, sir.” Pitt tried to help him. “Would you like to sit down?” He indicated the hard-backed wooden chair to one side of the desk. “Is it something to do with the death of Mrs. Spencer-Brown?”

Lovell sat reluctantly. “Yes. Yes, I have been—considering—weighing in my mind whether it was correct that I should speak to you or not.” It was remarkable how he managed to look alarmed and faintly pompous at the same time—like a rooster that has caught itself crowing loudly at high noon: acutely self-conscious. “One desires to do one’s duty, however painful!” He fixed Pitt with a solemn stare.

Pitt was embarrassed for him. He cleared his throat and tried to think of something harmless to say that did not stick in his mouth with hypocrisy.

“Of course,” he answered. “Not always easy.”

“Quite.” Lovell coughed. “Quite so.”

“What is it you wish to say, Mr. Charrington?”

Lovell coughed again and fished in his pocket for a handkerchief.

“You have quite the wrong word. I do not wish to say it, Inspector; I feel an obligation, which is quite different!”

“Indeed.” Pitt breathed out patiently. “Of course it is. Excuse my clumsiness. What is it you feel that we should know?”

“Mrs. Spencer-Brown . . . ” Lovell sniffed and kept the handkerchief knotted up in his fingers for a moment before folding it and replacing it in his pocket. “Mrs. Spencer-Brown was not a happy woman, Inspector. Indeed I would go so far as to say, speaking frankly, that she was somewhat neurotic!” He spoke the word as if it were faintly obscene, something to be kept between men.

Pitt was startled, and he had difficulty in preventing its showing in his face. Everyone else had said the opposite, that Mina was unusually pragmatic, adjusted very precisely to reality.

“Indeed?” He was aware of repeating himself, but he was confused. “What makes you say that, Mr. Charrington?”

“What? Oh—well, for goodness’ sake, man.” Now Lovell showed impatience. “I’ve had years of observing the woman. Live in the same street, you know. Friend of my wife. Been in her house and had her in mine. Know her husband, poor man. Very unstable woman, given to strong emotional fancies. Lot of women are, of course. I accept that, it’s in their nature.”

Pitt had found most women, especially in Society, to have fancies of an astoundingly practical nature, and to be most excellently equipped to distinguish reality from romance. It was men who married a pretty face or a flattering tongue. Women—and Charlotte had showed him a number of examples—far more often chose a pleasant nature and a healthy pocket.

“Romance?” Pitt said, blinking.

“Quite,” Lovell said. “Quite so. Live in daydreams, not used to the harsh facts of life. Not suited for it. Different from men. Poor Mina Spencer-Brown conceived a romantic attachment for young Tormod Lagarde. He is a decent man, of course, upright! Knew she was a married woman, and years older than he is into the bargain—”

“I thought she was about thirty-five?” Pitt interrupted.

“So she was, I believe.” Lovell’s eyes opened wide and sharp. “Good heavens, man, Lagarde is only twenty-eight. Be looking for a girl of nineteen or twenty when he decides to marry. Far more suitable. Don’t want a woman set in her ways—no chance to correct her then. One must guide a woman, you know, mold her character the right way! Anyhow, all that’s beside the point. Mrs. Spencer-Brown was already married. Stands to reason she realized she was making a fool of herself, and was afraid her husband would find out—and she couldn’t bear it anymore.” He cleared his throat. “Had to tell you. Damned unpleasant, but can’t have you nosing around asking questions and raising suspicions against innocent people. Most unfortunate, the whole affair. Pathetic. Great deal of suffering. Poor woman. Very foolish, but terrible price to pay. Nothing good about it.” He sniffed very slightly and dabbed at his nose.

“There very seldom is,” Pitt said dryly. “How do you come to know about this affection of Mrs. Spencer-Brown’s for Mr. Lagarde, sir?”

“What?”

Pitt repeated the question.

Lovell’s face soured sharply.

“That is a highly indelicate question, Inspector—er—Pitt!”

“I am obliged to ask it, sir.” Pitt controlled himself with difficulty; he wanted to shake this man out of his narrow, idiotic little shell—and yet part of him knew it would be useless and cruel.

“I observed it, of course!” Lovell snapped. “I have already told you that I have known Mrs. Spencer-Brown for several years. I have seen her over a vast number of social occasions. Do you think I go around with my eyes closed?”

Pitt avoided the question. “Has anyone else remarked this—affection, Mr. Charrington?” he asked instead.

“If no one else has spoken of it to you, Inspector, it is out of delicacy, not ignorance. One does not discuss other people’s affairs, especially painful ones, with strangers.” A small muscle twitched in his cheek. “I dislike intensely having to tell you myself, but I recognize it as my duty to save any further distress among those who are still living. I had hoped you would understand and appreciate that! I am sorry I appear to have been mistaken.” He stood up and hitched the shoulders straight on his jacket by pulling on both lapels. “I trust, however, that you will still comprehend and fulfill your own responsibility in the matter?”

“I hope so, sir.” Pitt pushed his chair back and stood up also. “Constable McInnes will show you out. Thank you for coming, and being so frank.”

He was still sitting looking at the closed door, the reports of the arson untouched and facedown, when Constable McInnes returned twenty minutes later.

“What is it?” Pitt said irritably. Charrington had disconcerted him. What he had said about Mina jarred against everything else he had heard. Certainly Caroline had told him of the affection for Tormod Lagarde, but hand in hand with the conviction that Mina was unusually levelheaded. Now Charrington said she was flighty and romantic.

“Well, what is it?” he demanded again.

“The reports from the doctor, sir.” McInnes held out several sheets of paper.

“Doctor?” For a moment Pitt could not think what he meant.

“On Mrs. Spencer-Brown, sir. She died of poisoning. Of belladonna, sir—a right mass of it.”

“You read the report?” Pitt said, stating the obvious.

McInnes colored pink. “I just glanced at it, sir. Interested, like—because . . .” He tailed off, unable to think of a good excuse.

Pitt held out his hand for it. “Thank you.” He looked down and his eye traveled over the copperplate writing quickly. On examination, it had proved that Wilhelmina Spencer-Brown had died of heart failure, owing to a massive dose of belladonna, which, since she had not eaten since a light breakfast, appeared to have been consumed in some ginger-flavored tonic cordial, the only substance in the stomach at the time of death.

Harris had taken the box of medicinal powder supplied to Alston Spencer-Brown by Dr. Mulgrew, and it was still three-quarters full. The total amount absent, including the dosages Spencer-Brown said he had taken, was considerably less than that recovered in the autopsy.

Whatever had killed Mina was not a dose of medicine, taken either accidentally or by her own intention. It came from some other, unknown source.

Chapter Six

CHARLOTTE SPENT A miserable day turning over in her mind what she should do about Caroline and Paul Alaric. Three times she decided quite definitely that it was not so very serious and she would do best to take Pitt’s advice and leave it alone. Caroline would not thank her for interfering, and Charlotte might only cause them both embarrassment, and make the whole matter seem more than it really was.

And then four times she remembered Caroline’s face, with the high glow in her skin, the tautness of her body, and the little gulp of excitement as she had spoken to Paul Alaric in the street. And she could still picture him perfectly herself, looking elegant and standing very straight, his eyes clear, his voice soft. She had another vivid recollection of his speech, his diction casually perfect, each consonant distinct, as if he had thought of everything before he spoke and had intended it exactly as it came.

Yes, quite definitely, she must do something, and quickly—unless it was too late even now!

She had already baked a complete batch of bread without any salt, and had hurt Gracie’s feelings by telling her to do the kitchen floor when she had just finished it. Now it was three in the afternoon, and she had turned one of Pitt’s shirt collars and stitched it back the same way it had been in the first place.

She tore it out crossly, using a few words she would have been ashamed to have had overheard, and decided to write to her sister Emily immediately and request that she call upon her as soon as she received the letter, whether it was convenient or not. Emily, who had married Lord Ashworth at just about the time Charlotte had married Pitt, might well have to cancel some interesting social engagement without notice; the journey itself, however, would simply be a matter of calling the carriage and stepping in. And Charlotte had gone to Emily quickly enough when that dreadful business had happened in Paragon Walk when Emily was expecting her baby. It was indelicate to remind her of it, but at the moment she could not afford polite invitations.

She found notepaper and wrote:

Dear Emily,

I have been calling upon Mama more frequently in the last two weeks, and something quite appalling has happened which may hurt her irreparably if we do not step in and take some action to prevent it. I would prefer not to put it into writing, as it is a long and complicated affair. I feel I must explain it to you in person, and ask your advice as to what we may do before a tragedy occurs and it is too late to do anything!

I know that you are busy, but new events have transpired which make it urgent that we act without delay. Therefore please cancel any plans you may have and call upon me as soon as you receive this. We both know from the past in Paragon Walk, and other places, that when disaster strikes it does not wait upon the decent end of soirées and other such enjoyments.

There has already been one death.

Your loving sister,

Charlotte.

She folded it up, put it into an envelope, and addressed it to Lady Ashworth, Paragon Walk, London, and sent Gracie to put it in the postbox immediately.

She had exaggerated, and she knew it. Emily might well be angry, even accuse her of lying by implication. There was no reason whatever to suppose that Mina’s death had anything to do with Caroline, or that Caroline herself was in any danger.

But if she had simply written that Caroline was running grave risk of making a fool of herself over a man, even Paul Alaric, it would have little effect. Of course, if their father found out it would hurt him deeply—he would be quite unable to understand. The fact that he had in times past taken at least one romance considerably further would be to him completely different. What was acceptable for a man to do, providing he was discreet, had nothing whatsoever to do with what that same man’s wife might do. And, to be honest, Caroline was not even being particularly discreet! All of which would not fetch Emily in any haste, simply because she would not believe it.

Whereas mention of death, and a rather unsubtle reminder of the hideous events at Paragon Walk, would almost certainly bring her as fast as her carriage could negotiate the streets.

And indeed it did. Emily knocked very sharply on the front door before noon the following day.

Charlotte opened it herself.

Emily looked elegant, even at that hour, her fair hair swept fashionably high under a delicious hat, and a dress of the limpid shade of green that suited her best.

She pushed her way in past Charlotte and marched down to the kitchen, where Gracie bobbed a quick curtsy and fled upstairs to tidy the nursery.

“Well?” Emily demanded. “What on earth has happened? For goodness’ sake, tell me!”

Charlotte was genuinely pleased to see her; it had been some little while since they had spent any time together. She put her arms around her in a swift hug.

Emily responded warmly but with impatience.

“What has happened?” she repeated urgently. “Who is dead? How? And what has it to do with Mama?”

“Sit down.” Charlotte pointed to one of the kitchen chairs. “It’s quite a long story, and it won’t make a lot of sense unless I tell it from the beginning. Would you like some luncheon?”

“If you insist. But tell me who is dead, before I explode! And what has it to do with Mama? From the way you wrote, she is in danger herself.”

“A woman called Mina Spencer-Brown is dead. At first it looked like suicide, but now Thomas says it is almost certainly murder. I have onion soup—would you like some?”

“No, I would not! Whatever possessed you to cook onion soup?”

“I felt like it. I’ve wanted onion soup for days now.”

Emily regarded her with a look of pain.

“If you had to have a craving because of your condition, couldn’t you have made it for something a little more civilized? Really, Charlotte! Onions! They are socially impossible! Where on earth can we go calling after onion soup?”

“I can’t help it. At least they are not out of season, or ridiculously expensive. You can afford to have a craving for fresh apricots or pheasant under glass if you wish, but I cannot.”

Emily’s face tightened. “Who is Mina Spencer-Brown? And what has she to do with Mama? Charlotte, if you have got me here simply because you want to meddle in one of Thomas’ cases”—she took a deep breath and pulled a face—“I would love to have an excuse to interfere! Murder is much more exciting than Society, even if it terrifies me sick at times and makes me weep because the solution is always so wretchedly sad.” She clenched her fist on the table. “I do think you might have told me the truth, instead of a pack of silly stories about Mama. I put off a really rather good luncheon to come here. And you offer me boiled onion soup!”

Memories flickered through Charlotte’s mind for a moment: the terrible corpse in the closed garden in Callander Square; and standing side by side with Emily, paralyzed with fright, when Paul Alaric found them at the end of the murders in Paragon Walk. Then she remembered the present again, and all the tingle and beating of the blood vanished.

“It is to do with Mama,” she said soberly. She served the soup and bread and sat down. “It will need salting. I forgot. Do you recall Monsieur Alaric?”

“Don’t be a fool!” Emily said with raised eyebrows. She reached for the salt and sprinkled a little. “How could I possibly forget him—even if he were not still my neighbor? He is one of the most charming men I have ever met. He can converse upon almost any subject as if he were interested. Why on earth does Society consider it fashionable to affect to be bored? It is really very tedious.” She smiled. “You know, I never really knew if he was aware quite how fascinated we all were by him, did you? How much do you think it was merely the challenge of his being a mystery, and that each of us wished to outdo the other by winning his attentions?”

“Only partly.” Charlotte had him so clearly in her mind even now, here in her own kitchen, it had to be something more than that. “He was able to laugh at us and yet at the same time make us believe that he liked us.”

“Indeed?” Emily’s eyes widened and her delicate nose flared a little. “I find that a most infuriating mixture. And I am perfectly sure that Selena at least desired of him a great deal more than simply to be ‘liked’! Friendship does not arouse that kind of excitement and discomfort in anyone!”

“He has become acquainted with Mama.” Charlotte hoped for a considerable reaction from Emily. She was disappointed: Emily was not interested.

“This soup is really rather nice with salt in it,” she remarked with surprise. “But I shall have to sit at the far side of the room and shout at everyone. You might have thought of that! What if Mama has met Monsieur Alaric? Society is very small.”

“Mama carries a picture of him in her locket.”

That had the desired effect. Emily dropped her spoon and stared, appalled.

“What did you say? I don’t believe it! She couldn’t be so—so idiotic!”

“She was.”

Emily shut her eyes in relief. “But she stopped!”

“No. The locket was lost—probably stolen. A lot of small things have been stolen from around Rutland Place—a silver buttonhook, a gold chain, a snuffbox.”

“But that’s awful!” Emily’s eyes were wide and dark with anguish. “Charlotte, it’s, simply dreadful! I know the servant problem is bad, but this is preposterous. One owes it to one’s friends to see at least that they are honest. What if someone finds this locket? And knows it is Mama’s with that—Frenchman—in it! What would they say? What would Papa think?”

“Exactly,” Charlotte said. “And now Mina Spencer-Brown is dead—probably murdered—almost next door to Mama. But she still doesn’t mean to stop seeing him. I’ve tried to dissuade her, and it has been exactly as if she had not heard me.”

“Haven’t you pointed out to her—” Emily began incredulously.

“Of course I have!” Charlotte cut her off before she could finish. “But did you ever take any notice of advice when you were in love?”

Emily’s face fell. “Don’t be ridiculous! What on earth do you mean, ‘in love’? Mama is fifty-two! And she is married—”

“That’s just years,” Charlotte said sharply, waving away the unimportance of time with her soup spoon. “I don’t suppose one feels any different. And to imagine that being married prevents you from falling in love is too naïve for words. If you are going to grasp at Society with both hands, Emily, at least practice some of its realism as well as its sophistry and silly manners!”

Emily shut her eyes and pushed her soup dish away.

“Charlotte, it’s awful!” she said in a tight, pained voice. “It would be total disaster. Have you any idea what happens to a woman who is known to be—without morals? Oh, it might be all right if it were with some earl or duke or something, and one was important enough oneself—but for someone like Mama— never! Papa could even divorce her! Oh, dear heaven! It would be the end for all of us. I should never be received anywhere again!”

“Is that all you care about?” Charlotte said furiously. “Being invited out? Can’t you think about Mama? And how do you imagine Papa would feel? Not to mention whatever it is that has happened to Mina Spencer-Brown!”

Emily’s face was white, anger lost in a sudden sense of shame for her own thoughts.

“You can’t possibly think Mama had anything to do with murder,” she said, lowering her voice considerably. “That’s inconceivable.”

“Of course I don’t,” Charlotte said. “But it’s perfectly conceivable, even probable, that the murder had something to do with the thefts. And that isn’t all. Mama said she has had the feeling for some time that someone has been watching her, spying on her. That could have something to do with the murder as well.”

Two spots of color appeared in Emily’s cheeks.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?” Her indignation was back again, embarrassment forgotten. “You should have sent for me straightaway. I don’t care how clever you think you are, you should not have tried it on your own. Look what a mess you have let it grow into! You have an overblown opinion of yourself, Charlotte. Just because you have stumbled on the truth in one or two of Thomas’ cases, you think you are so clever nobody can deceive you. And look what you have allowed to happen now!”

“I didn’t know it was murder until the day before I wrote to you.” Charlotte kept her temper with difficulty. She knew Emily was frightened, and she was also aware at the back of her mind that perhaps she had been a little overconfident of her own abilities. It might really have been better if she had called Emily sooner, at least about Caroline and Paul Alaric.

Emily reached for her soup dish again.

“This is cold. I don’t know why you can’t have a craving for something reasonable, like pickles. When I was carrying, I wanted strawberry jam. I had it with everything. Will you add some more hot from the pan to this, please?”

Charlotte stood up and ladled out some for both of them. She put Emily’s in front of her, then sat down to her own.

“What shall we do?” she asked quietly.

Emily looked back at her, all the anger evaporated. She was aware of her own selfishness, but it was unnecessary for either of them that she should say so.

“Well, we had better go immediately, this afternoon, and persuade Mama of the danger she is in, and stop her from seeing Monsieur Alaric again—except in the most casual way, as it is unavoidable, of course. We do not want to be obvious. It would occasion talk. Then in case it has anything to do with the thefts, and somebody has this wretched locket, we had better see if we can find out who killed the woman—Spencer-Brown. I have enough money. I can buy the locket back if it is blackmail.”

Charlotte was surprised. “Would you do that?”

Emily’s blue eyes widened. “Of course I would! We should buy back the locket first, then call in the police. It wouldn’t matter what they said afterwards—without the locket, nobody would believe them. They would only damn themselves the further for malice. We would destroy the picture, and Mama would deny it. Monsieur Alaric would hardly contradict! Even if he is foreign, he is most certainly a gentleman.” A shadow passed over Emily’s face. “Unless, of course, it was he who killed Mrs. Spencer-Brown.”

That Paul Alaric could be the murderer was an idea peculiarly repugnant to Charlotte. She had never really thought of him in that light, even in Paragon Walk, and it was sharp and ugly to do so now.

“Oh, I don’t think it could be he!” she said involuntarily.

Emily’s stare was very straight. “Why not?”

Then perception flashed across her face. She knew her sister too well for comfort; indeed she had always had a disconcertingly acute judgment of most people, both about what they wanted and, even more uncomfortably, why they wanted it. It was a facility, coupled with a sharp realism in her desires and the restraint to keep a still tongue in her head, that had led to her considerable success in Society. Charlotte had far more imagination, but it lacked a bridle. She failed to take account of social conventions, and therefore many of the motives of others eluded her. It was only when the darker, more elemental and tragic passions were involved that she understood instinctively, and often with a sharp and painful wave of pity.

“Why not?” Emily repeated, finishing her soup. “Do you think that because he is handsome he is therefore decent? Don’t be such a child! You ought to know better than to imagine that simply because someone is attractive he is not capable of the most facile and disgusting things as well. Handsome people are often extremely selfish. To be able to charm others is very dangerous to the character. It comes as a shock, sometimes an unacceptable one, to find there is something you want and you may not have it. He would not be the first simply to take it! If he has been brought up to believe he has only to smile and people will do as he wishes—For heaven’s sake, Charlotte, remember Selena! She was totally spoiled by having been told she was a beauty!”

“You don’t need to belabor the point,” Charlotte interrupted her angrily. “I understand you perfectly. I have met spoiled people too! And I have not forgotten how everyone twittered over Monsieur Alaric. He had only to show up and half the women in the Walk made fools of themselves!”

Emily gave her a dry look, her own memories less than entirely comfortable.

“Then you had better put on your best dress, and we shall go and call on Mama right away,” she said briskly. “Before she goes out, or receives anyone else. We can hardly say what we have to unless we are alone.”

Caroline received them with surprise and delight.

“My dears, how marvelous! Do come in and sit down. How wonderful to see you both!” She was dressed in the softest lavender-pink dress, high to the throat, with a fichu of lace falling gently. At any other time Charlotte would have envied her it; a gown like that would have suited her wonderfully and, far more important than the mere look of it, would have made her feel beautiful. Now all she could think of was how flushed Caroline was, how gaiety and even excitement bubbled just beneath the surface.

She glanced across at Emily and saw the chill of shock in her eyes.

“Emily, do sit over here where I can see you,” Caroline said cheerfully. “You haven’t been here for ages—at least it seems like ages. It is far too early for tea, and I suppose you have had luncheon already?”

“Onion soup,” Emily said with a little wrinkle of her nose.

Caroline’s face fell. “Oh, my dear! Whatever for?”

Emily reached for her bag, opened it, and took out her perfume. She touched herself liberally with it and then offered it to Charlotte.

“Mama, Charlotte tells me you have had some tragic happenings here lately,” she began, ignoring the question of the soup. “I’m so sorry. I wish you had written me. I would like to have been here to offer some comfort to you.”

Considering how radiant Caroline looked, the remark seemed somewhat misplaced. Charlotte had never seen anyone less distressed.

Caroline recollected herself rapidly. “Oh yes, Mina Spencer-Brown. Very sad indeed—in fact, quite tragic. I cannot think what drove her to it. I wish I had been able to help. I feel awfully guilty, but I had no idea at all there was anything wrong.”

Charlotte was conscious of the minutes ticking away, mindful that early callers might come at any time after three.

“She didn’t kill herself,” she said brutally. “She was murdered.”

There was total silence. The light died from Caroline’s face, and her body hunched into itself; suddenly she looked thinner.

“Murdered?” She repeated the word. “How could you know? Are you trying to frighten me, Charlotte?”

It was precisely what she was trying to do, but to admit it would rob at least half its effect.

“Thomas told me, of course,” she answered. “She died of belladonna poisoning, but the dose was far more than there had been in the house. It must have come from somewhere outside. No one else would give her poison for her to kill herself, so it can only have been murder, can’t it?”

“I don’t understand.” Caroline shook her head. “Why should anyone kill Mina? She did no harm to anyone. She didn’t have any money to leave, nor was she in line to inherit anything, so far as I know.” There was confusion in her face. “It doesn’t make any sense. Alston is the last sort of man to—to be having an affaire with another woman and wish to—No, it’s ridiculous!” Her voice regained its conviction and she looked up. “Thomas must have made a mistake—there is another explanation. We simply have not found it yet.” She sat a little straighter in her chair. “She must have brought it from somewhere. I’m sure if he looks—”

“Thomas is an excellent policeman and he does not make mistakes,” Emily said, to Charlotte’s amazement. It was a very sweeping statement, and less than true, but Emily continued regardless: “He will have thought of all those things. If he says it is murder, then it is! We had best face it, and conduct ourselves accordingly.” She opened her eyes wide and stared at Caroline, then shifted them a little, unable to look at her and deal the final blow. “And of course that means police all over the place, investigating everything and everyone! There won’t be any secrets left in the entire neighborhood.”

Caroline did not immediately understand. She saw the unpleasantness of it; indeed she could hardly have forgotten Cater Street, and she saw the dangers to those closely involved with Mina, but not her own peril.

Emily sat back, her face tight with pity, feeling a sense of guilt because she did not intend to be the one hurt.

“Mama,” she said slowly, “Charlotte says you have lost a pendant, and that it is of such a nature that you would prefer, if you were not the one to find it, that it was not found at all. This is a time when the utmost discretion is necessary. Even quite innocent acts can look very odd if they become public and everyone in Society begins to discuss them. Stories frequently grow in the telling, you know.”

They always grow in the telling, Charlotte thought miserably, and almost without exception for the worse—unless, of course, one is telling them oneself! She wondered now if she had done the right thing in bringing Emily here. She might have said the same things herself, but sitting and looking on, listening, it sounded so much harsher than she would have wished. Indeed it had a ring of selfishness to it, as if it were Emily’s reputation that was the first fear and Charlotte were merely self-righteous and inquisitive, carried away with her own imagination of herself as a detective.

They had not been very subtle.

She looked across at Emily and saw the pink in her skin, warm even up to her eyes, and she knew that Emily was suddenly conscious of it too.

Charlotte leaned forward and clasped Caroline’s hands. They were stiff, and she made no effort to respond.

“Mama!” Charlotte said. “We must find out all we can about Mina’s death, so that the investigation can be over with before there is time for Thomas, or anyone else, to start thinking about other people’s lives! She must have been killed for some reason— either love or hate, jealousy, greed—something!” She let out her breath in a sharp little noise. “Or most probably fear. Mina was clever, you said that. She was worldly wise, she observed a lot. Maybe she knew something about somebody that was worth killing to hide. There is a thief here, that is inescapable. Perhaps Mina knew who the thief was and was foolish enough to let the person see that she knew. Or maybe she was the thief herself and stole something someone would kill to retrieve.”

Emily rushed in, glad to have something practical to say to overlay the emotions. “For goodness’ sake, hasn’t Thomas searched the house? He should have thought of that! It’s simple enough!”

“Of course he has!” Charlotte snapped, then realized how her voice sounded. She did not need to defend Thomas; Emily thought well enough of him and, in her own way, liked him considerably. “They didn’t find anything,” she continued. “At least not anything they could understand to be important. But if we ask questions and investigate a little, we may perceive things that they could not. People are not going to tell the police more than they can help, are they?”

“Of course not!” Emily said eagerly. “But they will talk to us! And we can hear things Thomas would not—inflections, lies—because we know the people. That’s quite definitely what we must do! Mama, we shall come calling with you this afternoon, immediately! Where shall we begin?”

Caroline smiled bleakly. There was no point in fighting.

“With Alston Spencer-Brown,” Charlotte replied for her. “We shall express our deepest sympathy and shock. It would be quite appropriate. We will be overcome with the tragedy and not able to think of anything else.”

“Of course,” Emily said, standing up and pulling her skirt into the order she wished it. “I am quite desolated.”

“You didn’t even know her!” Caroline pointed out.

Emily looked at her coolly.

“One must be practical, Mama. I have met her at several soirees. I was most fond of her. Indeed I am convinced we were just at the beginning of a long and intimate friendship. He is not to know the difference. What did she look like? I will appear foolish if I do not recognize a portrait or a photograph. Although I could always say I was short-sighted— But I don’t wish to do that. Then I should have to fall over things to make it seem true.”

Caroline shut her eyes and put her fingers wearily over them.

“She was about your height,” she said, “but very slender, almost thin, and she had a very long neck. She looked younger than she was. She was fair, with an excellent complexion.”

“What about her features, and her hair?”

“Oh, she had regular enough features—a little small, perhaps? And very soft hair, sort of light mouse. She was really quite charming, when she chose. And she dressed excellently, nearly always in pale shades, especially creams. Very clever of her. It gave her an air of delicate innocence that appeals to men.”

“Good,” Emily said. “Then we are ready to go. We don’t want to be there with a whole lot of other people. We must not stay too long or we will make him suspicious, but we must see him alone. Goodness! I hope he is receiving? He hasn’t taken to his bed or anything?”

“I don’t think so.” Caroline stood up reluctantly. “I suppose I would have heard if he had. Servants always talk.”

Charlotte saw the hesitation in her, the desire even now to escape the necessity.

“You must come, Mama. We can hardly go alone. It would be most awkward. You are the only one who knows him.”

“I am coming,” Caroline said wearily. “But I won’t pretend I wish to. This whole thing is horribly ugly, and I wish we had nothing to do with it. I wish it had been suicide and we could let her rest in peace—be sorry, but not keep on thinking about it.”

“I daresay!” Emily said a little sharply. “But we can’t. And if we wish to have an acceptable outcome to the affair, then we must make it for ourselves! Charlotte is perfectly right.”

Charlotte resented the implication that the whole thing was her idea, but there was nothing to be gained by arguing now. She followed them out obediently.

Alston Spencer-Brown received them in a traditionally darkened room. All the blinds were drawn halfway down the windows, and there was black crêpe around the mirror, several of the photographs, and on the piano. He himself was dressed in the soberest clothes, the only touch of relief the white of his shirt.

“How kind of you to call,” he said in a small voice. He looked stunned, shorter and narrower than Charlotte had imagined him.

“The least we could do,” Caroline murmured unhappily as they accepted the seats he offered. “We were very fond of Mina.”

Alston looked a little questioningly at Emily, obviously not sure who she was or why she was there.

Emily lied without blinking an eye; she was very good at it.

“Indeed we were,” she said with a sad smile. “Very fond. I met her at several soirées and she was quite charming. We were just getting to know one another and found we had so much in common. She was such a discerning person.”

“Indeed she was,” Alston said with a lift of surprise that Emily should have noticed. “A most perceptive woman.”

“Exactly.” Emily put a wealth of understanding into the word. “She saw so much that passed by other, less sensitive people.”

“Do you think so?” Charlotte looked from one to the other of them.

“Oh yes.” Alston nodded. “I’m afraid poor Mina was frequently too astute for her own happiness. She was able to see in others traits and qualities that were not always attractive.” He shook his head. “Not always to their credit.” He sighed heavily and stared from Emily to Caroline, and back again. “I daresay you observed that yourselves?”

“Of course.” Emily sat straight-backed, rather prim. “But one cannot help a certain”—she hesitated delicately—“wisdom in the ways of the world if one has the intelligence to possess it. I’m sure I never heard Mina speak ill of people, for all that. She was not a gossip!”

“No,” he said flatly. “No, she knew how to keep her own counsel, poor creature. Perhaps that was her undoing.”

Charlotte took up the thread before the conversation became maudlin. Mina had had a sly tongue, even if Emily had not had the wit to guess as much.

“But it is almost impossible not to hear things.” Charlotte was surprised to hear her voice continue in precisely the same tone. “And to see them also, if one lives in a small area where everyone sees everyone else. I remember quite clearly poor Mrs. Spencer-Brown speaking with great sympathy”—she gulped on the words. Hypocrite!—“of the death of Mrs. Charrington’s daughter. That must have been a dreadful shock, and one cannot help but wonder what awful event occurred, even if only to know what comfort to offer.”

Caroline sat up at a sharp poke from Emily.

“Yes, indeed,” Caroline said. “No one knows what it was that struck her down so suddenly. Quite appalling. I recall Mina’s mentioning it.”

“She was very perceptive,” Alston repeated. “She knew there was something terribly wrong there—far more than met the eye. Most people were fooled, you know, but not Mina.” There was a perverse ring of pride in him. “She noticed everything.” His face put on a sober look. “Of course she never spoke, except to me. But she knew that the Charringtons had some tragedy that they dared not speak of. She said to me more than once that she would not be surprised if Ottilie met her death by violence! Of course the family would conceal it if it happened somewhere else, where we did not see—I mean, if it were— shameful!”

Charlotte’s mind raced. Did he mean another murder? Murder by a lover, perhaps? Or had Ottilie died bearing an illegitimate child—or, worse than that, as the result of a badly executed abortion? Or could she have been found in some appalling place, a man’s bedroom—or even a brothel?

Could one die of a socially vile disease at such a young age?

She thought not.

Surely death by such things was long and very slow, a matter of years?

But one could discover one had contracted it—and perhaps even be quietly suffocated by one’s own family before the ravages became obvious!

They were obscene thoughts, but not impossible. And any one of them worth killing for—if Mina had been foolish enough to let her knowledge be seen.

Emily was talking again, trying to draw out more details without betraying a vulgar curiosity. They had passed from Ottilie Charrington before it became too indiscreet, and were now discussing Theodora von Schenck. Charlotte and Caroline had prepared Emily thoroughly.

“Of course,” Emily said, nodding sagaciously, “mysteries always make for gossip. It is bound to follow. I cannot blame Mina in the least. I confess to wondering myself how Theodora has so improved her circumstances. You must admit—it lacks an explanation?” She leaned forward expectantly. “It is only human to speculate! You must not feel badly for it.”

Charlotte blushed for her and, at the same time, felt a little tinge of pride. She really was very adroit.

Alston rose to the temptation perfectly.

“Oh, that is where Mina was so perceptive,” he said with an air of sad satisfaction. “She did not speak of it, because she was very discreet, you know—not in the least uncharitable. But she saw a great deal, and it is my private belief that she knew the truth—about a number of things!” He sat back, looking from one to another of them.

Emily’s eyes widened at the marvel. “Do you really think so? You know she never whispered a word of it! Oh, how I admire her restraint!”

An ugly, squalid idea intruded into Charlotte’s mind and would not be dismissed. She too sat forward, staring at Alston, her face hot with the repugnance of the thought inside her.

“She must have been very observant,” she said quietly. “She must have seen a great deal.”

“Oh yes,” Alston said. “It was remarkable how much she saw. I am afraid a great deal must have passed by me without my having the least idea of it.” Suddenly memories overwhelmed him and he was riddled with guilt because his blindness might have held him from preventing the ultimate tragedy. If only he also had seen and understood, then Mina might not have been murdered. It was plain in his face, in the puckering and downturn of his mouth and the evasion of his eyes as they filled with embarrassing tears.

Charlotte could not bear it. Even though she thought she knew the truth, and there was as much anger as pity in her for Mina, she leaned forward and without self-consciousness put her hand on Alston’s sleeve.

“But as you remarked, and indeed as we all know,” she said firmly, “she was no gossip. She was far too wise to repeat her observations. I am sure you are the only one who had any idea of her—perceptions.”

“Do you think so?” He looked at her eagerly, seeking to be absolved from the blame for blindness. “I should so dislike to think she—she gossiped! One should—prevent such things.”

“Of course,” she reassured. “Do you not agree, Mama? Emily?”

“Oh yes,” they answered, although she knew from their eyes that they had only a partial idea of what they were supposed to mean by it.

Charlotte took her hand from his sleeve and stood up. Now that she had learned as much as he knew, she wanted to leave; it seemed indecent to stay here muttering sympathy that did not help, knowing that none of them really cared, except quite impersonally, as they would have for anyone.

Emily stayed firmly in her seat.

“You must take great care of yourself,” she said with concern, looking directly at Alston. “Of course you cannot go out for some time. It would not be appropriate, and I am sure you would have no desire to.” Emily knew her social conventions perfectly. “But you must not permit yourself to become ill.”

Caroline stiffened, her hands tightening on the arms of her chair. She stared across at Charlotte.

Charlotte felt her own muscles knot. Was Emily hinting at another murder?

Alston’s eyes widened, and his grief was swallowed entirely by fear.

Before anyone could collect decent words to say that would not make the appalling thought irretrievable, the parlormaid opened the door and announced that Monsieur Alaric had called and would Mr. Spencer-Brown receive him?

Alston muttered something incoherent, which the girl took to be assent, and after a moment’s agonized silence in which Charlotte glanced at Emily but dared not look at Caroline, Paul Alaric came in.

“Good afternoon . . .” He hesitated; obviously the maid had not warned him that there were other guests. “Mrs. Ellison, Mrs. Pitt.” He turned to Emily, but before he could speak, Alston rose hastily to the occasion, collecting himself in some relief at a clear-cut social duty.

“Lady Ashworth, may I present Monsieur Paul Alaric.” He turned to Alaric. “Lady Ashworth is Mrs. Ellison’s younger daughter.”

Alaric shot a glance at Charlotte, brilliant with inquiry; then in perfect soberness he took the hand Emily offered him.

“How charming to see you, Lady Ashworth. I hope you are well?”

“Quite well, thank you,” Emily replied coolly. “We called to express our sympathy to Mr. Spencer-Brown. Since we have done so, perhaps we should allow you to pay your visit uninhibited by the necessity of making courteous conversation with us.” She rose gracefully and gave him a smile that was barely more than good manners.

Charlotte rose also; she had been on the point of excusing them when the parlormaid had come to announce Alaric.

“Come, Mama,” she said briskly. “Perhaps we may call upon Mrs. Charrington? I did so like her.”

But Caroline remained seated. “Really, my dear.” She leaned back in her chair and smiled. “If we depart the moment Monsieur Alaric arrives, he will think us most uncivil. There is plenty of time yet for other calls.”

Emily caught Charlotte’s eye with a sudden appreciation of the perverseness that faced them. Then she turned back to her mother.

“I’m sure Monsieur Alaric will not think ill of us.” This time she flashed a charming smile at him. “It is sensibility for Mr. Spencer-Brown that makes us withdraw, and not a lack of wish for Monsieur Alaric’s company. We must think first of others, and not of ourselves. Is that not so, Charlotte?”

“Of course it is,” Charlotte agreed quickly. “I am sure that if I were feeling distressed there would be times when the company of my own sex would be especially valuable to me.” She also turned and smiled at Alaric, and was a little disconcerted to see his eyes, bright and faintly puzzled, regarding her so closely.

“I should be flattered beyond the point of vanity, ma’am, to believe any man would prefer my company to yours,” he said with a softness in his voice, although whether it was irony or merely humor she could not tell.

“Then perhaps a little of each?” Charlotte suggested with her eyebrows raised. “Even the sweetest things become boring after a while and one longs for a variety.”

“The sweetest things,” he murmured, and this time she knew unquestionably that he was laughing at her, although there was nothing to show it in his face and she believed it was lost upon everyone else in the room.

“Let alone those with considerable acid to them,” she said.

Alston had not followed the conversation, but his innate good manners overrode his confusion. There was an ease in convention, the comfort of knowing the rules.

“I cannot imagine wishing you to leave, any of you.” His gesture embraced them all. “Please do remain a little longer. You have been so kind.”

Caroline accepted immediately, and there was nothing Charlotte or Emily could do but reseat themselves and, with as much grace as they could muster, begin a new conversation.

Caroline made it easy for them; from being merely polite and silently sympathetic, suddenly she was glowing, her intensity reaching out until it could be felt throughout the room.

“We were just encouraging Mr. Spencer-Brown to take the best care of himself,” she said warmly, looking from Alston to Alaric. “It is so easy in one’s grief for someone one has loved to forget oneself. I am sure you will be able to help him more than we can.”

“That is why I called,” Alaric said. “Social gatherings are unacceptable, naturally, but to remain alone inside the house makes everything harder to bear.” He turned to Alston. “I thought in the next few days you might like to come for a carriage ride? It can be very pleasant if the weather is fine, and you would not be required to meet anyone.”

“Do you think I should?” Alston seemed uncertain.

“Why not? Everyone must bear grief in his own manner, and those who wish you well will not grudge you whatever ease you can find. Music pleases me, and contemplating the great works of art, whose beauty survives the life and death of their creators to reach out to all pain and all aspiration. I would be happy to accompany you to any gallery you choose—or anywhere else.”

“Do you not think people might expect me to remain in?” Alston frowned anxiously. “At least until after the funeral? That is not for several days yet, you know. Friday. Yes.” He blinked. “Of course you know. How foolish of me.”

“Would you care for me to ride with you?” Alaric asked quietly. “I shall not be in the least offended if you would like to be alone, but I rather think if I were in such a situation, I should prefer not to be.”

The crease ironed out across Alston’s brow. “Would you? That really is most generous of you.”

Charlotte was thinking the same thing, and it annoyed her. She would much rather have disapproved of Paul Alaric, and have had grounds in her mind for doing so. She glanced sideways at Caroline and saw the radiance in her eyes, the softness of approval.

Then she looked at Emily and knew that she had seen it also.

“How kind of you,” Emily said with an edge to her voice that had far more to do with her own fears than any concern for Alston. “I am sure it is a most excellent act. Companionship is invaluable at such a time. I recall when I was bereaved, it was the company of my mother and my sister that gave me the most comfort.”

Charlotte had no idea what she was talking about—surely not Sarah’s death? That had affected them all equally—but she knew of no other bereavement.

Emily continued, regardless: “And I see no reason why you should not take a small drive if Monsieur Alaric is good enough to offer his company for that also. No one of any sensibility at all—no one who could possibly matter—would misunderstand that.” She lifted her chin. “People do misconstrue some associations, of course, but that is more often so when it is a friendship between a lady and a gentleman. Then people are bound to talk, no matter how innocent it may be in truth. Do you not agree, Monsieur Alaric?”

Charlotte watched him closely to see if she could detect in his face even the faintest degree of comprehension of what they really meant, the purpose under their superficial words.

He remained completely at ease; seemingly his attention was still upon Alston.

“There are always those who will think evil, Lady Ashworth,” he answered her. “Whatever the circumstances. One cannot possibly afford to cater to all of them. One must satisfy one’s own conscience and observe the most obvious conventions so as not to offend unnecessarily. I believe that is all. Beyond that, I think one should please oneself.” He turned to Charlotte, his eyes penetrating, as if he understood in some sense that she would have said exactly the same, were she to be truthful. “Do you not agree, Mrs. Pitt?”

She was caught in a dilemma. She hated equivocation, and her own tongue had caused enough social disasters to make anything but concurrence with him laughable. Also she would like to have been agreeable because there was a quality in him far beyond elegance, or even intellect, which drew her—a reserve of emotion as yet unreached that fascinated, like a thunderstorm, or the splendor of a rising wind far out at sea: dangerous and overwhelmingly beautiful.

She shut her eyes, then opened them wide.

“I think that can be a very selfish indulgence, Monsieur Alaric,” she said with primness that made her sick even as she was speaking. “Much as one would like to on occasion, one cannot ignore Society. If it were ever to be only oneself who paid the price for outraging people’s sensibilities, no matter how misplaced, it would be quite a different matter. But it is not. Gossip also hurts the innocent, more often than not. We are none of us alone. There are families upon whom every stain rubs off. The notion that you can please yourself without harming others is an illusion, and a most immature one. Too many people use it as an excuse for all manner of self-indulgences, and then plead ignorance and total amazement when others are dragged down with them, as if it could not have been foreseen with an ounce of sense!” She stopped for breath, not daring to look at any of them, least of all at Alaric.

“Bravo,” Emily whispered so softly that to the others it must have seemed as if she were no more than sighing.

“Charlotte!” Caroline was stunned, unable to think what to say.

“How very perceptive of you.” Emily rushed in to fill the hot silence. “And you have expressed it so well! It is a subject which has long needed some plain speaking! We delude ourselves so often to give us excuse for all sorts of behavior. Perhaps I should not, since you are my sister, but I do so commend your honesty!”

Since it was a precept Charlotte had been the last to obey in her own life, Emily’s remark could only be ironic, although there was nothing but translucent candor in her blue eyes now.

Charlotte beamed at her, daggers in her mind.

“Thank you,” she said sweetly. “You flatter me.” She stood up. “And now I, at least, must leave or I shall not have left myself time to call upon Mrs. Charrington, and I do find her so charming. Do you care to come with me, Mama? Or shall I tell her that you felt it your duty to remain here with Mr. Spencer-Brown—and Monsieur Alaric?”

Since it was manifestly ridiculous for Caroline to think anything of the sort, she had no alternative but to rise as well.

“Of course not,” she said tartly. “I should be delighted to come with you. I am very fond of Ambrosine and would like very much to call upon her. I must introduce her to Emily. Or do you know her already as well?” she added waspishly.

Emily was not in the least deterred. “No, I don’t believe I do. But Charlotte has spoken of her so kindly, I have been looking forward to meeting her.”

That was also untrue: Charlotte had never mentioned her, but it was an excellent parting line.

Alaric stood up, very straight, shoulders beautifully square, a flicker of the old laughter in his eyes, seeing them all so clearly, as a foreigner sometimes does.

“You will find her unique,” he said with a little bow. “And above all things, never, ever a bore.”

“Such a rare quality,” Charlotte murmured, blushing. “Never to be boring.”

Caroline lost her temper in frustration and reached out to kick Charlotte underneath her skirts. She missed, but the second time she caught her sharply on the ankle. The corners of her mouth lifted with satisfaction. “Quite,” she said. Then she looked at Alston, who had also risen to bid them goodbye. “If there is anything we can do, please do let me know.” Curiously she did not mention Edward, except by implication. “We are so close by and would be happy in any help or comfort we could offer—perhaps in practical arrangements?”

“How very kind of you,” Alston replied. “I should be most grateful.”

Charlotte looked straight at Alaric and met his eyes. She took a deep breath.

“I’m sure if you felt my father could offer you any help with regard to your assistance at the funeral, he would be delighted to do so.” She lifted her chin. “Perhaps he should call upon you and see what would be convenient? We have suffered bereavements ourselves, and he is a most sensitive person. I am quite convinced you would like him.” She did not look away, although she could feel the heat creeping up her face.

At last she was rewarded by an answering flash of understanding in the depths of Alaric’s eyes, and a slow color under his skin.

“Indeed.” His voice was very quiet. “I respect your purpose, Mrs. Pitt. I shall consider it gravely.”

She tried to smile, and failed. “Thank you.”

They said their formal farewells and walked to the entrance where the parlormaid was waiting, Alston having rung for her. Both doors were opened so that they might pass through without being forced into single file. Charlotte turned as they stepped into the hall and found to her considerable embarrassment that Paul Alaric was still facing them, and his eyes, wide and black, were not on Caroline, or Emily, who had also looked back, but upon herself.

The last thing she wanted was to look at Caroline, yet she found herself doing precisely that. The gaze that met hers was of one woman to another, no more; they might never have met before. The only element there was the sudden and complete knowledge of rivalry.

Chapter Seven

CHARLOTTE COULD HARDLY wait until Pitt returned. She made the easiest of meals, placed it in the oven to cook itself, and then flitted from one job to another, accomplishing nothing. It was quarter past six when at last she heard the front door open, and she instantly dropped the linen cloth in her hand and ran from the kitchen to meet him. Usually she forced herself to let him come to the warmth of the big cooking range, take off his coat, and sit down before speaking to him of the day, but this time she shouted as soon as his foot was in the passage.

“Thomas! Thomas, I saw Alston Spencer-Brown today, and I discovered something!” She ran down the corridor and grasped at both his hands. “I think I know something about Mina—perhaps why she was killed!”

He was wet and tired, and not in the best of moods. His superiors were still clinging to the belief that it must have been suicide while the balance of her mind was upset by some private distress. It could all be so much more decently disposed of, and without turning over a lot of people’s lives to investigate affairs that were far preferably left alone. Uncovering causes for enmity was always an ugly and unpopular occupation, and seldom profited the career of whoever undertook it—at least not if he was of a rank sufficiently advanced that there was no validity in the shield that he was merely following orders.

Pitt’s superior, Dudley Athelstan, was a younger son who had married well and had an ambition that fed on its own success. He had spent the latter part of the day trying to persuade Pitt that there was no case to investigate. There were any number of ways an unbalanced woman might come by sufficient poison to take her own life if that was what she had determined to do. When Pitt had left him, Athelstan had been in growing ill-humor because he could not convince even himself, let alone Pitt and Sergeant Harris, that the matter had been answered beyond reasonable doubt, for no chemist or apothecary could be found who had sold such a substance, and certainly no doctor had prescribed it, no matter how diligently they had searched.

Now Pitt started to undo his coat. It was dripping in the hallway, and the day before he had received a very wounded and sober criticism from Gracie about the amount of labor it took to get the floor to its degree of polish, without inconsiderate people spilling water all over it.

“Why did you go and see Alston Spencer-Brown?” he inquired a little sourly. “He’s surely nothing to do with you, or your mother?”

Charlotte could feel the irritation in him as if he had brought the cold in from the street, but she was too excited to take heed.

“The murder is to do with Mama,” she said briskly, taking the coat and putting it on a hook to drip further, instead of carrying it through to the kitchen to dry. “We have to get the locket back. Anyway, Emily wanted to visit Mama, and I went with her!” If the flame of the gas lamp in the hallway had been brighter, he might have seen her blush at the half-truth. She turned and walked smartly back to the kitchen and the fire. “Mama went to call upon him to express her sympathy,” she explained. “Anyway, that’s not important!” She swung around and faced him. “I know at least one good reason why Mina Spencer-Brown might have been killed—maybe two!” She waited, glowing with excitement.

“I can think of a dozen,” he said soberly. “But no proof for any of them. It never lacked possibilities, but they are not enough. Superintendent Athelstan wants the case closed. Suicide leaves them decently alone with their grief.”

“Not possibilities,” she burst out with impatience. “I mean real reasons! Do you remember I told you Mama said she felt as if she were being followed, watched all the time?”

“No,” he said honestly.

“I told you! Mama was aware of someone—most of the time! And Ambrosine Charrington said the same thing. Well, I believe it was Mina! She spied on people—she was what is called a Peeping Tom. Alston said so, in a roundabout sort of way— although of course he didn’t realize what he was meaning. Don’t you see, Thomas? If she followed someone with a secret, a real secret, she may have learned something that was worth killing over. And I know from Alston of at least two possibilities!”

He sat down and took off his wet boots. “What?”

“Don’t you believe me?” She had expected him to receive the news eagerly, and now he looked as if he were listening only to humor her.

He was too tired to be polite.

“I think your mother’s affaire is probably not as serious as you imagine. Plenty of people have a little flirtation, especially Society women who have little else to do. You should know that by now. I expect it’s all dropped handkerchiefs and bunches of flowers—about as real as a piece of embroidery. And I daresay if anyone was watching her, it was only out of boredom. You are making too much of it, Charlotte. If she were not your mother, you would take no notice.”

She restrained herself with great difficulty. For a moment she considered losing her temper, telling him that the outward show might be trivial but the feeling underneath was as real and as potentially violent as anything conducted in the back streets, or in less naturally restricted levels of Society. Then she realized how tired he was, how discouraged by Athelstan’s desire to hide or ignore what did not suit his ambition. Anger would communicate nothing.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” she said instead, looking at his wet feet and the white skin of his hands where the cold had numbed the circulation. Without waiting for an answer, she topped up the kettle and moved it from the back of the stove onto the front.

After a few moments’ silence while he put on dry socks, he looked up.

“What are these two possibilities?”

She heated the teapot and measured out the tea.

“Theodora von Schenck has an income, lately acquired, which nobody can account for. Her husband left her nothing, nor did anyone else, apparently. When she came to Rutland Place, she had nothing but the house. Now she has coats with sable collars, and Mina perhaps put forward some very interesting speculations as to where they might have come from.”

“Like what?” he inquired.

She jiggled the teapot impatiently while the kettle blew faint halfhearted whiffs of steam, hot but not yet boiling.

“A brothel,” Charlotte answered. “Or a lover. Or blackmail? There are all sorts of things worth killing to hide, where money is concerned. Maybe Theodora was blackmailing people with Mina’s information and they had a fight over the money.”

He smiled sourly. “Indeed. Your Mina seems to have had a most uncharitable turn of imagination, and a tongue to go with it. Are you sure that is what she said, and not what you are thinking for her?”

“Alston remarked several times on how perceptive she was of other people’s characters, especially the less pleasant aspects of them. But he also said that she never spoke of them to anyone but him.” She reached for the kettle at last. “However, that is the less likely possibility of the two, I think. The other possibility I remember Mina mentioning myself, and with a kind of relish, as if she knew something.” She poured the water onto the tea and put on the lid, then brought the pot to the table and set it on the polished pewter stand. She let it brew while she went on: “It has to do with the death of Ottilie Charrington, which was sudden and unexplained. One week she was in perfect health, and the next the family returned from a holiday in the country and said she was dead. Just like that! No one ever said from what cause, no one was invited to any funeral, and she was never mentioned again. Mina apparently hinted that there was something very shameful about it—perhaps a badly done abortion?” She shivered and thought of Jemima asleep upstairs in her pink cot. “Or she was murdered by a lover, or in some unbearable place, like a brothel. Or possibly even she did something so terrible that her own family murdered her to keep it silent!”

Pitt looked at her gravely, without speaking.

She poured the tea and passed him his cup.

“I know it sounds violent, and unlikely,” she went on. “But then I suppose murder always is unlikely—until it actually happens. And Mina was murdered, wasn’t she? You know now that she didn’t kill herself.”

“No.” He sipped the tea and burned his mouth; his hands were too numb for him to have realized its heat. “No, I think someone else put poison into the cordial wine we found in her stomach in the autopsy. We found the dregs in the empty bottle in her bedroom, and a glass. It was just chance she took it when she did; it could have been anytime she felt like it. It could have been anyone who put it there, anytime.”

“Not if they wanted to silence her,” Charlotte pointed out. “If you are afraid of someone, you want them dead before they speak, which means as soon as possible. Thomas, I really do believe she was a Peeping Tom. The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. She peeped once too often and saw something that cost her her life.” She stared down into her tea, watching the vapor curl off it and rise gently. “I wonder if people who get murdered are usually unpleasant, if they have some flaw in them that invites murder? I mean people that aren’t killed for money, of course. Like Shakespearean tragic heroes—one fatal deformity of soul that mars all the rest that might have been good.” She stirred her tea, although there was no sugar in it. The steam curled thicker. “Curiosity killed the cat. If Mina had not wanted to know so much about everybody ... I wonder if she knew about Monsieur Alaric, and Mama’s locket?” Oddly enough, she was not afraid. Caroline was foolish, but there was neither the viciousness nor the fear in her to make her kill. And Paul Alaric had no reason to.

He looked up sharply, and too late she realized she had not mentioned Alaric’s name before. Of course Pitt could not have forgotten him from Paragon Walk. At one time they had suspected him of murder . . . or worse!

“Alaric?” he said slowly, searching her face.

She felt herself flush, and was furious. It was Caroline who was behaving foolishly; she, Charlotte, had done nothing indiscreet.

“Monsieur Alaric is the man whose picture Mama has in the locket,” she said defensively, looking straight back at him. And then because his eyes were too clear, too wise, she turned away and stirred her sugarless tea vigorously once again. She tried to sound casual. “Did I not mention that?”

“No.” She knew he was still watching her. “No—you didn’t.”

“Oh.” She kept her eyes on the swirling tea. “Well, he is.”

There were several moments of silence.

“Indeed?” he said at last. “Well, I’m afraid we didn’t find the locket—or any of the other stolen things, for that matter. And if Mina was a Peeping Tom, stealing for the sake of a sick need to know about other people, to possess something of them—” He saw her shudder, and he gave a sigh. “Isn’t that what you are saying? That she was abnormal, perverted?”

“I suppose so.”

He tried his tea again. “And of course there is the other possibility,” he added. “Maybe she knew who the thief was.”

“How tragic, and ridiculous!” she said with sudden anger. “Someone dying over a few silly things like a locket and a buttonhook!”

“Lots of people have died for less.” The rookeries came to his mind with their teeming misery and need. “Some for a shilling, some by accident for something they didn’t have, or in mistake for somebody else.”

She sipped her tea. “Are you going to investigate it?” she said at last.

“There’s no choice. I’ll see what I can find out about Ottilie Charrington. Poor soul! I hate digging through other people’s wretched tragedies. It must be bad enough to lose a daughter, without the police unburying every indiscretion, putting every love or hate under a magnifying glass. No one wants to be seen so clearly!”

But the following morning the necessity was just as plain. If Charlotte was right and Mina had been inquiring, peeping at other people, then it was more than probable that some knowledge gained that way had been the cause of her death. He had heard before of people, outwardly normal people, often respectable, who were diseased with a compulsion to watch others, to pry into intimate things, to follow, to lift curtains aside, even to open letters and listen at doors. This compulsion always led to dislike and fear, often to imprisonment. It was inevitable that one day it would bring about murder also.

He could hardly start by going directly to the Charringtons. There was no excuse for him to question them about their daughter’s death so long after the event unless he were to tell them of his suspicions, and that was obviously impossible at this point. It might be slander, at best. And on so tenuous a thread they would have no obligation to answer him even so.

Instead he went back to Mulgrew. The doctor had attended most of the families of Rutland Place, and if he had not known Ottilie himself, he would almost certainly be able to tell Pitt who had.

“Filthy day!” Mulgrew greeted him cheerfully. “Owe you a couple of handkerchiefs. Obliged to you. Act of a gentleman. How are you? Come in and dry yourself.” He waved his arms to conduct Pitt along the hallway. “Street’s like a river, or perhaps I should say a gutter! What’s wrong now? Not sick, are you? Can’t cure a cold, you know. Or backache. No one can! At least if someone can, I’ve not met him!” He led the way back to an overcrowded room full of photographs and mementos, bookcases on every wall, cascades of papers and folios sliding off tables and stools. A large Labrador lay asleep in front of the fire.

“No, I’m not sick.” Pitt followed him with a feeling of relief, even elation. Suddenly the ugly things became more bearable, the darkness he must probe less full of shapeless fear, but rather known things, things that could be endured.

“Sit down.” Mulgrew waved an arm widely. “Oh, tip the cat off. She always gets on there the moment my back is turned. Pity she has so much white in her—damn white hairs stick to my pants. Don’t mind, do you?”

Pitt eased the little animal off the chair and sat down smiling.

“Not at all. Thank you.”

Mulgrew sat opposite him.

“Well, if you’re not sick, what is it? Not Mina Spencer-Brown again? Thought we proved she died of belladonna?”

The little cat curled itself around Pitt’s legs, purring gently, then hopped up onto his knees and wound itself into a knot, face hidden, and fell asleep instantly.

Pitt touched it with pleasure. Charlotte had wanted a cat. He must get her one, one like this.

“Are you physician to the Charringtons as well?” he asked.

Mulgrew’s eyes opened wide in surprise.

“Throw her off if you want,” he said, pointing to the cat. “Yes, I am. Why? Nothing wrong with any of them, is there?”

“Not so far as I know. Except that their daughter died. Did you know her?”

“Ottilie? Yes, lovely girl.” His face retreated quite suddenly into lines of heavy sorrow. “One of the saddest things I know, her death. Miss her. Lovely girl.”

Pitt was aware of a genuine grief, not the professional sadness of a doctor who loses a patient, but a sense of personal bereavement, of some happiness that no longer existed. He was embarrassed to have to continue. He had not expected emotion; he had been prepared only for thought, academic investigation. The mystery of murder was ephemeral, even paltry; it was the emotions, the fire of pain, and the long wastelands afterward that were real.

His hands found the cat’s warm little body again, and he stroked it softly, comforting himself as much as pleasing the animal.

“What caused her death?” he asked.

Mulgrew looked up. “I don’t know. She didn’t die here. Somewhere in the country—Hertfordshire.”

“But you were the family physician. Didn’t they tell you what it was?”

“No. They said very little. Didn’t seem to want to talk about it. Natural, I suppose. Shock. Grief takes people differently.”

“It was very sudden, I understand?”

Mulgrew was looking into the fire, his eyes away from Pitt’s, seeing something he could not share.

“Yes. No warning at all.”

“And they didn’t tell you what it was?”

“No.”

“Didn’t you ask?”

“I suppose I must have. All I can really remember was the shock, and how nobody spoke of it, almost as if by not putting it into words they could undo it, stop it from being real. I didn’t press them. How could I?”

“But as far as you know she was perfectly well at the time she left Rutland Place?” Pitt inquired.

Mulgrew looked at him at last.

“One of the healthiest I know. Why? Obviously it matters to you or you wouldn’t be here asking so many questions. Do you imagine it has something to do with Mrs. Spencer-Brown?”

“I don’t know. It’s one of several possibilities.”

“What kind of possibility?” Mulgrew’s face creased in pain. “Ottilie was eccentric, even in bad taste to many, but there was nothing evil in her. She was one of the most truly generous people I ever knew. I mean generous with her time—she was never too busy to listen if she thought someone needed to talk. And generous with her praise—she didn’t grudge appreciation, or envy other people’s successes.”

So Mulgrew had loved her, in whatever manner. Pitt did not need to know more: the warmth in Mulgrew’s voice told of the loss still hurting him, twisting an emptiness inside.

It made Pitt’s own thoughts, prompted by Charlotte, the more painful. It was sharp enough for him to lie. He needed to think about it a little, come to it by degrees. He did not look at Mulgrew when he spoke.

“From evidence I’ve just heard”—he measured his words slowly—“it seems possible that Mina Spencer-Brown was inordinately curious about other people’s affairs, that she listened, and peeped. Does that seem likely to you?”

Mulgrew’s eyes widened and he stared at Pitt, but he did not answer for several minutes. The fire crackled, and on Pitt’s knees the cat woke and started kneading him gently with her claws. Absentmindedly he eased her up to rest on his jacket, where she could not reach her claws through to his flesh.

“Yes,” Mulgrew said at last. “Never occurred to me before, but she was a watcher, never missed a thing. Sometimes people do that. Knowledge gives them an illusion of power, I suppose. It becomes compulsive. Mina could have been one of them. Intelligent woman, but an empty life—one stupid, prattling party after another. Poor creature.” He leaned forward and put another piece of coal on the fire. “All day, every day, and not really necessary anywhere. What a bloody stupid thing to die for—some piece of information acquired through idiotic curiosity, no use to you at all.” He turned his face away from the firelight. “And you think it had something to do with Ottilie Charrington?”

“I don’t know. Apparently, Mina thought her death was a mystery, hinting that there was a great deal more to it than had been told and that she knew what it was.”

“Stupid, sad, cruel woman,” Mulgrew said quietly. “What on earth did she imagine it was?”

“I don’t know. The possibilities are legion.” He did not want to spell them out and hurt this man still more, but he had to mention at least one, if only to discount it. “A badly done abortion, for example?”

Mulgrew did not move.

“I believe not,” he said very levelly. “I cannot swear to it, but I believe not. Do you have to pursue it?”

“At least enough to satisfy myself it is wrong.”

“Then ask her brother Inigo Charrington. They were always close. Don’t ask Lovell. He’s a pompous idiot—can’t see further than the quality of print on a calling card! Ottilie drove him frantic. She used to sing songs from the music halls—God only knows where she learned them! Sang one on a Sunday once—drinking song, it was, something about beer—not even a decent claret! Ambrosine called me in. She thought Lovell was going to take a seizure. Purple to the hair, he was, poor fool.”

At any other time Pitt would have laughed. But the knowledge that Ottilie was dead, perhaps murdered, robbed the anecdote of any humor.

“Pity,” he said quietly. “We get so many of our priorities wrong and never know it until afterwards, when it doesn’t matter anymore. Thank you. I’ll speak to Inigo.” He stood up and put the little cat on the warm spot where he had been sitting. She stretched and curled up again, totally content.

Mulgrew shot to his feet. “But that can’t be all! If Mina, wretched woman, was a Peeping Tom, she must have seen other things—God knows what! Affaires, at least! There’s more than one butler around here should lose his job, that I know of—and more than one parlormaid, if her mistress knew of it!”

Pitt pulled a face. “I daresay. I’ll have to look at them all. By the way, did you know there is a sneak thief in Rutland Place?”

“Oh God, that too! No, I didn’t know, but it doesn’t surprise me. It happens every now and then.”

“Not a servant. One of the residents.”

“Oh, my God!” Mulgrew’s face fell. “Are you sure?”

“Beyond reasonable doubt.”

“What a wretched business. I suppose it couldn’t have been Mina herself?”

“Yes, it could. Or it could have been her murderer.”

“I thought my job was foul at times. I’d a damned sight rather have it than yours.”

“I think I would too, at the moment,” Pitt said. “Unfortunately we can’t chop and change. I couldn’t do yours, even if you were willing to trade. Thanks for your help.”

“Come back if I can do anything.” Mulgrew put out his hand, and Pitt clasped it hard. A few minutes later he was outside again in the rain.

It took him two and a half hours to find Inigo Charrington, by which time it was past noon and Inigo was at the dining table in his club. Pitt was obliged to wait in the smoking room, under the disapproving eye of a dyspeptic steward who kept clearing his throat with irritating persistence, till Pitt found he was counting the seconds each time, waiting for him to do it again.

Finally, Inigo came in and was informed in hushed tones of Pitt’s presence. He came over to him, his face a mixture of amusement at the steward’s dilemma—and his own as other eyes were raised to stare at him—and apprehension about what Pitt might want.

“Inspector Pitt?” He dropped rather sharply into the chair opposite. “From the police?”

“Yes, sir.” Pitt regarded him with interest. He was slender, not more than thirty at the most, with an odd, quick-silver face and auburn hair.

“Something else happened?” Inigo said anxiously.

“No, sir.” Pitt regretted having alarmed him. Somehow he could not picture him having murdered his sister, or Mina either, to keep a scandal quiet. There was too much sheer humor in his face. “No, nothing at all, that I am aware of. But we have still not found any satisfactory answer as to how Mrs. Spencer-Brown met her death. There seems no explanation, so far, that makes either accident or suicide possible.”

“Oh.” Indigo sat back a little. “I suppose that means it could only have been murder. Poor soul.”

“Indeed. And I daresay a great deal more pain will be caused before the business is finished.”

Inigo looked at him gravely. “I imagine so. What do you want me for? I don’t think I know anything. I certainly didn’t know Mina very well.” His mouth turned down in a sour smile. “I didn’t have any reason to kill her. Although I suppose you can hardly take my word for that! I wouldn’t be likely to tell you so if I had!”

Pitt found himself smiling back. “Hardly. What I was hoping for was information.” He could not afford to be direct. Inigo was far too quick; he would anticipate suspicion and cover any trace of real worth.

“About Mina? You’d do much better asking some of the women—even my mother. She’s rather absentminded at times, and she gets her gossip a little twisted, but underneath it all she’s a pretty shrewd judge of character. She may get her facts wrong, but her feelings are invariably right.”

“I shall ask her,” Pitt said. “But she might speak considerably more freely to me if I had approached you first. Normally ladies such as Mrs. Charrington do not confide their opinions of their neighbors to the police.”

Inigo’s face softened into mercurial laughter, gone in an instant.

“Very tactfully put, Inspector. I imagine they don’t. Although Mama has a taste for the bizarre. I’ll mention it to her this evening. She might surprise you and tell you all sorts of things. Although quite honestly, she isn’t really a gossip. Not enough malice in her. She used to like to shock people occasionally when she was younger. Got bored with everyone repeating the same rubbish evening after evening at the same parties—just different dresses and different houses, but all the same conversations. Bit like Tillie.”

“Tillie?” Pitt was lost.

“My sister—Ottilie. Better not repeat that. My father used to go into an apoplexy when I called her Tillie when we were children.”

“And she liked to shock people?” Pitt quickly asked.

“Loved it. Never heard anyone laugh like Tillie. It was beautiful, rich, the sort of laughter that you have to join in with even if you have no idea what was funny.”

“She sounds like a delightful person. I’m sorry I shall not meet her.” He found it was far more than a sympathetic platitude; he meant what he said. Ottilie was something good that he had missed.

Inigo’s eyes widened for a moment as if he did not understand; then he let out a little sigh.

“Oh. Yes. You would have liked her. Everything seems rather colder now she’s gone, not the same color in things. But that isn’t what you’re here for. What do you want to know?”

“I understand she died very suddenly?”

“Yes. Why?”

“It must have been a great shock. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“Those fevers can be very sudden—no warning,” he tried experimentally.

“What? Oh yes, very. But this must be wasting your time. What about Mina Spencer-Brown? She certainly didn’t die of a fever. And Tillie wasn’t given belladonna for treatment, I can assure you. Anyway, we were in the country at the time, not here.”

“You have a country house?”

“Abbots Langley, in Hertfordshire.” He smiled. “But you won’t find any belladonna there. We all have excellent digestions—need to, some of the cooks we’ve had! If Papa chooses them, we have all soups and sauces, and if Mama does, then pies and pastries.”

Pitt felt intrusive. How could anyone like being a Peeping Tom?

“I wasn’t thinking of belladonna,” he said honestly. “I am looking for reasons. Somewhere Mrs. Spencer-Brown must have given somebody cause to want her dead. Finding the belladonna is less important.”

“Is it?” Inigo’s eyebrows rose. “Don’t you want to know who, more than why?”

“Of course I do. But anyone could make belladonna out of deadly nightshade. There’s plenty of it about in these old gardens. It could have been picked anywhere. It’s not like strychnine or cyanide that most people would have to buy.”

Inigo winced. “What a terrible thought—going out to get something to kill people.” He paused for a moment. “But I honestly haven’t any idea why someone should kill Mina. I didn’t especially like her. I always thought she was too”—he searched for the word he wanted—“too deliberate, too clever. All head and no heart. She was thinking all the time, never missed anything. I prefer people who are either stupider or less permanently interested. Then if I do something idiotic it can be decently forgotten.” He smiled a little crookedly. “But you hardly go out and distill poison for someone because you don’t like them very much. I couldn’t even say I disliked her—just that I was not entirely comfortable when she was there, which wasn’t very often.”

It all fitted so easily with what Charlotte had said, slid into the pattern and coalesced: a watcher, a listener, adding everything together in her mind, working out answers, understanding things that were intimate.

But how, and for whom, had “not entirely comfortable” changed into “intolerable”?

He wanted to think of a useful question, something to make Inigo believe he was asking about Mina, not Ottilie.

“I never saw her alive. Was she attractive—to men?”

Inigo’s face creased with spontaneous laughter.

“Not very subtle, Inspector. No, she wasn’t—not to me. I like something a little less schooled, and with more humor. If you ask around the Place, no doubt you will be told my taste runs to the warmhearted, slightly eccentric, for entertainment. And if I were to marry—I really don’t know who the woman would be. Someone I really liked—certainly not Mina!”

“You mistake me,” Pitt said with a dry smile. “I was thinking of a possible lover, even a rejected one. They say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but I’ve found men take it no less kindly, especially vain and successful men. There are many people who believe that loving someone puts the person into some sort of debt to you and gives you certain rights. More than one man has killed a woman because he thought she wasted herself on someone unworthy of her—someone other than himself, that is. I’ve known men with the notion that they somehow owned a woman’s virtue, and if she stained it she had offended not against herself or against God—but against him!”

Inigo stared into the polished surface of the table and smiled very slowly over something he was not prepared to share with Pitt, something at the same time funny and bitter.

“Oh, indeed,” he said sincerely. “I believe in feudal times if a woman lost her virginity she had to pay a fine to the lord of the manor, because she was then worth much less to him come the time someone wished to marry her and naturally had to pay the lord for the privilege. We haven’t changed so much! We’re far too genteel to pay in money, of course, but we still pay!”

Pitt would like to have known what he meant, but to ask would have been vulgar, and he probably would not have been answered.

“Could she have had a lover?” He went back to the original question. “Or an admirer?”

Inigo thought for a few moments before replying.

“Mina? I’ve never considered it, but I suppose she could have. The oddest people do.”

“Why do you say that? She looked as if she had been at least attractive, if not even beautiful.”

Inigo seemed surprised himself. “Just her personality. She didn’t seem to have any fire, any—gentleness. But then you said an admirer, didn’t you? She was very delicate; she had a femininity about her that would have been just what appealed to some—a sort of austere purity. And she always dressed to suit it.” He smiled apologetically. “But it is pointless asking me who, because I have no idea.”

“Thank you.” Pitt stood up. “I can’t think of anything else to ask you. It was most courteous of you to see me, especially here.”

“Hardly.” Inigo stood up as well. “Your presenting yourself didn’t give me a great deal of choice. I had either to see you or to look like a pompous ass—or, worse than that, as if I had something to hide.”

It had been intentional, and Pitt would not insult him by denying it.

He did not go to see Ambrosine Charrington the following day, but instead packed a gladstone bag with clean shirt and socks and took the train from Euston Station to Abbots Langley to see what he could discover about Ottilie Charrington’s death.

He spent two days, and the more he learned the more confused he became. He had no trouble in locating the house, for the Charringtons were well known and respected.

He ate a comfortable lunch at the inn, then walked to the local parish churchyard, but there were no Charringtons buried there—neither Ottilie nor anyone else.

“Oh, they’ve only been here for twenty years, going on,” the sexton told him reasonably. “They’re newcomers. You won’t find any of ’em here. Buried in London somewhere, like as not.”

“But the daughter?” Pitt asked. “She died here little over a year ago!”

“Maybe so, but she ain’t buried here,” the sexton assured him. “Look for yourself! And I’ve been to every funeral here in the last twenty-five years. No Charringtons—not a one.”

A sudden thought occurred to Pitt.

“How about Catholic or Nonconformist?” he asked. “What other churches are there close by?”

“I know every funeral as goes on in this neighborhood,” the sexton said vehemently. “It’s my job. And the Charringtons weren’t any of them outlandish things. They was gentry—Church of England, like everybody else who knows what’s good for them. Church here every Sunday they’re in the village. If she’d been buried anywhere around here, it would be in this churchyard. Reckon as you must be mistaken and she died up in London somewhere. Leastways, if she died here, they took her back to London to bury her. Family vault, likely. Lie alongside your own, that’s what I always say. Eternity’s a mighty time.”

“Don’t you believe in the Resurrection?” Pitt said curiously.

The sexton’s face puckered with disgust at any man who would be so crass as to introduce abstract matters of doctrine in the practicalities of life and death.

“Now what kind of a question is that?” he demanded. “You know when that’s going to be, do you? Grave’s a long time, a very long time. Should be done proper. You’ll be a lot longer in it than any grand house here!”

That was a point beyond argument. Pitt thanked him and set out to find the local doctor.

The doctor knew the Charringtons, but he had not attended Ottilie in her last illness, nor had he written any death certificate.

The following midday, by which time Pitt had seen servants, neighbors, and the postmistress, he caught the train back to London convinced that Ottilie Charrington had been in Abbots Langley on the week of her death but that she had not died there. The booking clerk at the station recalled seeing her on one or two occasions, but he could not swear when; and although she had bought a ticket to London, he did not know if she had returned.

It seemed an inescapable conclusion that she had died not in Abbots Langley but somewhere unknown, and of some cause unknown.

Now Pitt could not avoid seeing Ambrosine and Lovell Charrington any longer. Even Superintendent Athelstan, much as it pained him, could think of no argument to avoid it, and an appointment was duly made—politely, as if it were a courtesy. However, it was not as Pitt had intended: He would rather have been casual, and preferably have seen Lovell and then Ambrosine separately. But when he had reported on his visit to Abbots Langley, Athelstan had taken the matter into his own hands.

Lovell received Pitt in the withdrawing room. Ambrosine was not present.

“Yes, Inspector?” he said coolly. “I cannot think what else I can tell you about the unfortunate business. I have already done my duty and informed you fully of everything I knew. Poor Mrs. Spencer-Brown was most unstable, sad as it makes me to have to say so. I do not interest myself in other people’s private lives. Therefore I have no idea what particular crisis may have precipitated the tragedy.”

“No, sir,” Pitt said. They were both still standing, Lovell stiff and unprepared to offer any sop to comfort. “No, sir, but it now seems beyond doubt that Mrs. Spencer-Brown did not take her own life. She was murdered.”

“Indeed?” Lovell’s face was white, and he suddenly reached for the chair behind him. “I suppose you are quite sure? You have not been too hasty, leaped to conclusions? Why should anyone murder her? That is ridiculous! She was a respectable woman!”

Pitt sat down too. “I have no reason to doubt that, sir.” He decided to lie, at least by implication; there was no other way he could think of to approach the subject. “Sometimes even the most innocent people are killed.”

“Someone insane?” Lovell grasped at the easiest explanation. Insanity was like disease—indiscriminate. Had not Prince Albert himself died of typhus? “Of course. That must be the answer. I am afraid I have seen no strangers about the area, and all our servants are chosen most carefully. We always follow up references.”

“Very wise,” Pitt heard himself agree, hypocrisy dry in his mouth. “I believe you very tragically lost your own daughter, sir?”

Lovell’s face closed over in tight defense, almost hostility.

“Indeed. It is a subject I prefer not to discuss, and it has no relation whatever to the death of Mrs. Spencer-Brown.”

“Then you know more of Mrs. Spencer-Brown’s death than I do, sir,” Pitt replied levelly. “Because as yet I have no knowledge as to what caused it, or who, let alone why.”

Lovell’s skin was white, drawn in painful lines around his mouth and jaw. Cords of muscle stood out in his neck, making his high collar sit oddly.

“My daughter was not murdered, sir, if that is what you imagine. There is no question of it. Therefore it can have no connection. Do not let your professional ambition give you to see murder where there is nothing but simple tragedy.”

“What did cause her death, sir?” Pitt kept his voice low, aware of the pain he must be inflicting; consciousness of it was stronger than the gulf of feeling and belief between the two men.

“An illness,” Lovell replied. “Quite sudden. But it was not poison. If that has occurred to you as a connection, then you are quite mistaken. You would do better to employ your time investigating Mrs. Spencer-Brown rather than going over other people’s family losses. And I refuse to permit you to trouble my wife with these idiotic questions. She has suffered enough. You can have no idea what you are doing!”

“I have a daughter, sir.” Pitt was reminding himself as much as this stiff little man in front of him. What if Jemima had died suddenly, without warning to the emotions—full of life one day, and nothing but a vivid, beautiful, and agonizing memory the next? Would he now find it intolerable to discuss it as Lovell did?

He could not guess. It was tragedy beyond the ability of the mind to conjure.

And yet Mina had been someone’s daughter too.

“Where did she die, sir?”

Lovell stared at him. “At our house in Hertfordshire. What possible concern is it of yours?”

“And where is she buried, sir?”

Lovell’s face flushed scarlet. “I refuse to answer any more questions! This is monstrous impertinence, and grossly offensive! You are paid to discover the cause of Mina Spencer-Brown’s death, not to exercise your infernal curiosity about my family and its bereavements. If you have anything to ask me about the matter, then do so! I shall do my best to answer you, according to my duty. Otherwise I request that you leave my house immediately, and do not return unless you have legitimate business here! Do you understand me, sir?”

“Yes, Mr. Charrington,” Pitt said very softly. “I understand you perfectly. Was your daughter friendly with Mrs. Spencer-Brown?”

“Not particularly. I think they were no more than civil to one another. There was a considerable difference in their ages.”

A completely random thought occurred to Pitt.

“Was your daughter well acquainted with Mr. Lagarde?”

“They had known each other for some time,” Lovell replied stiffly. “But there was no”—he hesitated while he chose his word—“no fondness between them. Most unfortunate. It would have been an excellent match. My wife and I tried to encourage her, but Ottilie had no—” He stopped, his face hardening again. “That is hardly pertinent to your inquiry, Inspector. Indeed, it is not pertinent to anything at all now. Forgive me, but I think you are wasting both your time and mine. There is nothing I can tell you. I bid you good day.”

Pitt considered whether to argue, to insist, but he did not believe that Lovell would tell him anything more.

He stood up. “Thank you for your assistance. I hope it will not be necessary to trouble you again. Good day, sir.”

“I hope not indeed.” Lovell rose. “The footman will show you out.”

Rutland Place was pale with watery sun. In one or two gardens green daffodil leaves stood like bayonets, yellow banners of bloom held above them. He wished people would not plant them in ranks, like an army.

Whether Mina Spencer-Brown had been right about the ugliness of its nature or not, there was certainly a mystery about Ottilie Charrington’s death. She had neither died nor been buried where her family claimed.

Why should they lie? What really had killed her, and where?

The answer could only be that there was something so painful, or so appalling, that they dared not tell the truth.

Chapter Eight

FOR THREE DAYS there was no progress at all. Pitt followed up every material clue he could find, and Sergeant Harris questioned servants, both kitchen and outdoor. No one told them anything that seemed to be of importance. It became more and more apparent that Mina had been, as Charlotte guessed, an obsessive watcher. Little scraps of information, impressions gathered here and there gradually confirmed it. But what had she seen? Surely something more damning than merely the identity of a petty thief?

Then on the afternoon of the fourth day, a little after one o’clock, Charlotte was standing in the parlor opening the French doors onto the small back garden, breathing in the air that at last had warmth in it and the smell of sweet earth, when Gracie came in at a trot, her heels scuffing up the new rug.

“Oh, Mrs. Pitt, ma’am, there’s a letter come for you by special footman, in a carriage and all, and he says it’s terrible urgent. And please, ma’am, the carriage is still standing there in the street as large as life, and ever so grand!” She held out the envelope at arm’s length for Charlotte to take.

A glance was sufficient to see that it was Caroline’s writing. Charlotte tore the envelope open and read:

My dear Charlotte,

The most appalling thing has happened. I hardly know how to tell you, it seems so utterly tragic.

As you know, Eloise Lagarde was most distressed by Mina’s death and the circumstances of it, and Tormod took her to their country house to rest and recover her spirits.

My dear Charlotte, they have returned this morning after the most dreadful accident I have ever known! I feel quite sick to think of it, it is almost past enduring. While out driving, returning from a picnic one evening with friends, poor Tormod was at the reins of the carriage and he slipped from the box and fell, right under the wheels. As if that in itself was not terrible enough, a group of friends were right behind them. It was past dusk, and they did not see what had happened! Charlotte, they drove straight over him! Horses and carriage!

That poor young man, hardly older than yourself, is crippled beyond any hope! He lies on his bed in Rutland Place and, for all we can believe or pray, will do so for the rest of his life!

I am so distressed I cannot think what to say or do. How can we help? What response is there in the face of such total tragedy?

I felt you would wish to know as soon as possible, and I have sent the carriage for you, in case you wish to come this afternoon. I would dearly like your company, even if only to share with someone my shock at such pain. Your father is at business and shall be dining out this evening, and Grandmama is of no comfort at all.

I have also written to Emily and sent the letter by messenger.

Your loving mother,

Caroline Ellison.

Charlotte read the letter a second time, not that she doubted she had understood it, but to give herself time to allow its meaning, with the weight of pain it carried, to sink into her consciousness.

She tried to imagine the night, the dark road, Tormod Lagarde as she had last seen him, with his high, pale brow and wave of black hair, standing on the driving box; then perhaps a horse swerving, an unexpected turn in the road, and suddenly he was lying in the mud, the carriage above him, the noise and the rattle, the wheels passing over a leg or an arm, the crushing weight, bones snapped. A moment’s silence, the night sky, and then the smashing, pummeling hooves of the other carriage and the crushing weight, agony as his body was broken—

Dear God! Better, infinitely more merciful, if he had been killed outright, simply never to have known sensibility or light again.

“Ma’am?” Gracie’s voice came urgently. “Ma’am? Are you all right? You look terrible white! I think as you ought to sit down. I’ll get the salts, and a good cup of tea!” She turned to go, determined to rise to the occasion and do something useful.

“No!” Charlotte said at last. “No, thank you, Gracie. It’s all right. I’m not going to faint. It is most terrible news, but it is an acquaintance, not a member of my family or a close friend. I shall go and call upon my mother this afternoon. It is a friend of hers. I cannot say how long I shall be. I must put on something more suitable than this dress. It is far too cheerful. I have a dark dress which is quite smart. If the master comes home before I do, please show him this letter. I’ll put it in the desk.”

“You look terrible pale, ma’am,” Gracie said anxiously. “I think as you should have a nice cup of tea before you goes anywhere. And shall I ask the footman if he’d like one too?”

Charlotte had forgotten the footman; indeed her mind had slipped back to the past and she had not even remembered that the carriage was not her own.

“Yes, yes, please do that. That would be excellent. I shall go upstairs and change, and you may bring my cup of tea there. Tell the footman I shall not be long.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Caroline was very somber when Charlotte was shown in. For the first time since Mina’s death, she was dressed in black and there was no lace at her throat.

“Thank you for coming so soon,” she said the moment the maid had closed the door. “Whatever is happening to Rutland Place? It is one unspeakable tragedy after another!” She seemed unable to sit down; she held her hands tightly together and stood in the middle of the floor. “Perhaps it is wicked of me to say so, but I feel as if in a way this is even worse than poor Mina! It is only what the servants say, and I should not listen to it, but it is the only way of hearing anything,” she excused herself quite honestly. “According to Maddock, poor Tormod is”—she took a breath—“completely crushed! His back and his legs are broken.”

“It’s not wicked, Mama.” Charlotte shook her head in a tiny gesture, putting out her arm to touch Caroline. “If you have any faith, death cannot be so terrible—only, on occasion, the manner of it. And surely it would have been better, if he is as dreadfully injured as they say, that he should have died quickly? If he cannot recover? And I would not trust to Maddock for that. I daresay he got it from the cook, and she from one of the maids, who will have had it from an errand boy, and so on. Do you intend to call, to express your sympathies?”

Caroline’s head came up quickly. “Oh yes, I feel that would only be civil. One would not stay, of course, but even if only to acknowledge that one is aware and to offer any help that may be possible. Poor Eloise! She will be quite shattered. They are very close. They have always been so fond of each other.”

Charlotte tried to imagine what it would be like to love someone so dearly and have to watch him day after day, mutilated beyond reparation, awake and sane, and be unable to help. But imagination stopped short of any sort of reality. She could remember Sarah’s death, of course, but that had been quick— violent and horrible, to be sure—but thank God, there had been no lingering, no stretching out of pain day after day.

“What can we possibly do?” she asked helplessly. “Just to call and say we are sorry seems so wretchedly trivial.”

“There isn’t anything else,” Caroline answered quietly. “Don’t try to think of everything today. Perhaps in the future there may be something—at least companionship.”

Charlotte received that in silence. The sunlight streaming across the carpet, picking out the garlands of flowers, seemed remote, more like a memory than anything present. The bowl of pink tulips on the table looked stiff, like an ornamental design, hieratic and foreign.

The maid opened the door. “Lady Ashworth, ma’am.” The maid bobbed a curtsy, and immediately behind her Emily came in, looking pale and less than her usually immaculate self.

“Mama, what a fearful thing! How ever did it happen?” She caught hold of Charlotte’s arm. “How did you hear? Thomas is not here, is he? I mean it’s nothing—”

“No, of course not!” Charlotte said quickly. “Mama sent the carriage for me.”

Caroline shook her head in confusion. “It was an accident. They were out driving. It was fine, and they had had a picnic somewhere and returned late, by a longer and more pleasant way. It’s all perfectly ridiculous!” For the first time there was anger in her voice as the futility of it struck her. “It need never have happened! A skittish horse, I suppose, or some wild animal cutting across a country road, frightening them. Or maybe it was an overhanging branch from some tree.”

“Well, that’s what one keeps woodsmen for!” Emily said in an explosion of impatience. “To see that there are no overhanging branches across carriageways.” Then equally quickly her anger vanished. “What can we do to help? I don’t really see what there is, except one’s sympathy. And little use that will be!”

“It is still better than nothing.” Caroline moved toward the door. “At least Eloise will not feel that we are indifferent, and then if there comes a time when she wishes something, even if it is only company, she will know that we are ready.”

Emily sighed. “I suppose so. It seems like offering a bucket to bail out the sea!”

“Sometimes merely to know you are not alone is some comfort,” Charlotte said, as much to herself as to them. Out in the hallway Maddock was waiting.

“Shall you be returning for afternoon tea, ma’am?” he inquired, holding Caroline’s coat for her.

“Oh yes.” Caroline nodded and allowed him to put it around her shoulders. “We are merely going to call upon Miss Lagarde. We will hardly be long.”

“Indeed,” Maddock said gravely. “A most terrible tragedy. Sometimes these young men drive most rashly. I have always believed that racing was a highly dangerous and foolish exercise. Most conveyances are not designed for it.”

“Were they racing?” Charlotte asked quickly, turning to face him.

Maddock’s features were without expression. He was a servant and knew his place, but he had also been with the Ellisons since Charlotte was a young girl. Little she did could surprise him.

“That is what they are suggesting, Miss Charlotte,” he replied impassively. “Although it would seem a somewhat foolish occupation along a country road, and almost bound to cause injury to someone, even if only the horses. But I have no idea if it is true or merely backstairs speculation. One cannot prevent servants from exercising their imaginations about such a disaster. No amount of chastisement will silence them.”

“No, of course not,” Caroline said. “I wouldn’t waste time trying—as long as it is not quite irresponsible.” She raised her eyebrows a little. “And they are not neglecting their duties!”

Maddock looked faintly hurt. “Naturally, ma’am, I have never permitted that in my house.”

“No, of course not.” Caroline was mildly apologetic for having thoughtlessly insulted his integrity.

Emily was standing at the door, and the footman opened it for her. The carriage outside was already waiting.

The distance to the Lagardes’ was only a few hundred yards, but the day was wet and the footpath running with water, and this was the most formal of calls. Charlotte climbed in and sat in silence. What on earth could she say to Eloise? How could a person reach from her own happiness and safety across such a gulf?

None of them spoke before the carriage stopped again and the footman handed them down. Then he remained standing at the horses’ heads, waiting in the street as a mute sign to other callers that they were there.

A parlormaid, minus her usual white cap, opened the door and said in a tight little voice that she would inquire whether Miss Lagarde would receive them. It was some five minutes before she returned and conducted them into the morning room at the back of the house, overlooking the rainswept garden. Eloise rose from the sofa to greet them.

It was excruciating to look at her. The translucent skin was as white as tissue paper, with the same lifeless look. Her eyes were sunken and enormous, seeming to stretch till the bruises beneath were part of them. Her hair was immaculate, but had obviously been dressed by the maid, as had she; her clothes were delicate and neat, but she wore them as if they were artificial, winding-sheets on a body for which the spirit no longer had any use. She seemed even thinner, her laced-in waist more fragile. The shawl Charlotte had previously seen her wear was gone, as if she no longer cared if she was cold or not.

“Mrs. Ellison.” Her voice was completely flat. “How kind of you to call.” She might have been reading a foreign language, without any comprehension of its meaning. “Lady Ashworth, Mrs. Pitt. Please do sit down.”

Uncomfortably they obeyed. Charlotte felt her hands chill, and yet her face hot with a sense of embarrassment at having intruded into something too exquisitely painful even for the rituals of pride and the need for privacy to cover. She was overwhelmed by anguish like this; it filled the room.

Charlotte was stunned into silence. Even Caroline fumbled for words and found none. Only Emily’s unrelenting social discipline carried her through.

“No expression of our sympathy could possibly meet such distress as you must feel,” she said quietly. “But do be assured we grieve for you, and in time if there is anything we may do to be of comfort, we would be only too willing.”

“Thank you,” Eloise replied without expression. “That is generous of you.” It was as if she were hardly aware of them, only of the need to reply or at least to acknowledge each time someone spoke. Her sentences were formal, things she had prepared herself to say.

Charlotte searched her mind for anything at all that did not sound idiotic.

“Perhaps presently you would care for a little company,” she suggested. “Or if you have somewhere to go, perhaps you would prefer not to go alone?” It was a suggestion for Emily or Caroline rather than herself, since she had neither frequent opportunity to visit Rutland Place nor a carriage available.

Eloise’s eyes met hers for a moment, then slid away into something frighteningly like complete vacancy, as if all the world she knew was inside her head.

“Thank you. Yes, I expect that may be. Although I fear I shall hardly be pleasant company.”

“My dear, that is not at all true,” Caroline said. She lifted her hands as if to reach forward, but there was some barrier around Eloise, an almost tangible remoteness, and she let them fall again without touching her. “I have never known you anything but sympathetic,” she finished helplessly.

“Sympathetic!” Eloise repeated the word, and for the first time there was emotion in her voice, but it was hard, stained with irony. “Do you think so?”

Caroline could do nothing but nod.

Silence closed in on them again, stretching as long as they would suffer it to exist.

Again Charlotte racked her mind to think of something to say, just for the sake of sound. But it would be offensive, almost prurient, to inquire how Tormod was faring, or what the doctor might have said. And yet to speak of anything else was unthinkable.

The moments ticked on. The room seemed to grow enormous and the rain outside far away; even the sound of it was removed. The nightmare horses galloped through all their minds, the wheels crashed.

Eventually, when Charlotte was just about to say something, however absurd, to break the pressure, the maid returned to announce Amaryllis Denbigh. Much as Charlotte disliked Amaryllis, she felt a rush of gratitude merely to be relieved of the burden.

Amaryllis came a few steps behind the maid. She stood in the doorway and stared from one to the other of them aghast, although surely she must have seen the carriage outside.

Her eyes fastened on Charlotte accusingly. She was white-faced, and her usually lush hair was awry and the pink salve on her lips smudged.

“Mrs. Pitt! I had not expected to find you here!”

There was no civil reply to this, so Charlotte attributed it to natural distress and ignored it altogether.

“I am sure you have called in sympathy, as we have,” she said levelly. She waited a second or two for Eloise to say something; then, as she did not, Charlotte added, “Please do sit down. This sofa is most comfortable.”

“How can you talk of comfort at such a time?” Amaryllis demanded in a sudden gust of fury. “Tormod will get better, of course! But he is in agony.” She shut her eyes and hot tears ran down her cheeks. “Absolute agony! And you sit there as if you were at a soirée and talk about comfort!”

Charlotte felt anger and pain well up inside her, because Amaryllis spoke out of her own passion, without thought for the pain she must be causing Eloise.

“Then stand, if you prefer to,” she said tartly. “If you imagine it will be of some conceivable service, I’m sure no one will mind.”

Amaryllis seized a chair and sat down, her silk skirts everywhere.

“At least if he will get better, then that is hope,” Emily said, trying to ease the electric harshness a little.

Amaryllis swung round, opened her mouth, then closed it again.

Eloise was sitting perfectly motionless, her face blank, her hands lifeless in her lap.

“He will not,” she said without a shadow of expression, as if she had faced death itself and grown accustomed to it and accepted it without hope. “He will never stand again.”

“That’s not true!” Amaryllis’ voice rose almost to a shriek. “How dare you say anything so dreadful? That is a lie! A lie! He will stand, and in time he will walk. He will! I know it.” She stood up, went over to Eloise, and stopped in front of her, shaking with emotion, but Eloise neither looked up nor flinched.

“You are dreaming,” Eloise said very quietly. “One day you will know the truth. However long it takes, it is always there, and it will come to you.”

“You’re wrong! You’re wrong!” The color flamed up Amaryllis’ face. “I don’t know why you’re saying all this. You have your own reasons—God in heaven knows what they are!” There was accusation in her voice, shrill and ugly—frightened. “He will get better. I refuse to give in, to surrender!”

Eloise looked at her as if she were transparent or of no importance, as if she were unreal, as inconsequential as a magic-lantern slide.

“If that is what you wish to believe,” she said quietly, “then do so. It really makes no difference to anyone, except I would ask you not to keep repeating it, especially if the time should come when Tormod is well enough to receive you.”

Amaryllis’ body became rigid, her arms like wood, her bosom high.

“You want him to lie there!” she cried, almost gulping the words. “You evil woman! You want to keep him a prisoner here! Just you and he, all the rest of his life! You’re mad! You’re never going to let him go—you—”

Suddenly Charlotte woke into action. She jumped to her feet and slapped Amaryllis sharply across the face.

“Don’t be idiotic!” she said furiously. “And so utterly selfish! Who on earth do you imagine you are helping, standing there shrieking like a servant girl? Pull yourself together and remember that it is Eloise and not you who has to bear the hardship of this! It is she who has cared about him all her life! Can you possibly believe that poor Mr. Lagarde wishes to have his sister subjected to abuse on top of everything else? The doctor is the only one who can say whether he will recover or not, and false hope is more painful than learning to accept with patience the truth, whatever it may be, and await the outcome!”

Amaryllis stared at her. Quite possibly it was the first time in her life anyone had struck her, and she was too appalled to react. And the insult that she had behaved like a servant was a mortal one!

Emily stood up also and took Charlotte aside, then guided Amaryllis back to her seat. Eloise sat through it all as if she had neither seen nor heard them, absorbed in her own thoughts. They could have been shadows passing across the lawn for any mark they made upon her mind.

“It is natural you should be shocked,” Emily said to Amaryllis with a supreme effort at calmness. “But these dreadful things affect people in different ways. And you must remember that Eloise has spoken with the doctor and knows what he has said. It would be best if we were all to await his advice. I daresay Mr. Lagarde needs as little disturbance as can be.” She turned to Eloise. “Is that not so?”

Eloise was still looking at the floor.

“Yes.” She raised her eyebrows a little, almost with surprise. “Yes, we should not distress him with our feelings. Rest—that is what Dr. Mulgrew said. Time. Time will tell.”

“Is he to call again soon?” Caroline inquired. “Would you care to have someone with you when he does, my dear?”

For the first time Eloise smiled very faintly, as if at last she had heard not only the words, but their meaning.

“That is most kind of you. If it is not a trouble? I am expecting him momentarily.”

“Of course not. We shall be happy to stay,” Caroline assured her, her voice rising with pleasure that there was something they could do.

Amaryllis hesitated when they all turned to look at her, then changed her mind.

“I think there are other calls it would be courteous for us to make while I am in the neighborhood,” Emily said. “Charlotte can remain here. Perhaps Mrs. Denbigh would care to come with me?” She spoke with exquisite ease. “I should be most happy for your company.”

Amaryllis’ eyes widened; obviously it was a contingency she had not foreseen, and she was about to protest, but Caroline grasped the opportunity.

“What an excellent idea.” She rose, straightening her skirts to make them fall elegantly behind her. “Charlotte will be delighted to remain here, and I shall accompany you so we may continue with our visiting. I am sure Ambrosine would be pleased to see us. You would be happy to do that, wouldn’t you, my dear?” She looked to Charlotte nervously.

“Of course,” Charlotte agreed quite sincerely. For once, Mina and the mystery surrounding her death were banished from her mind and she was aware only of Eloise. “I think that is most certainly what you should do. And it is only a step. I can quite easily walk back when it is time.”

Amaryllis stood a few moments longer, still trying to think of some acceptable excuse to stay, but nothing came to her and she was obliged to follow Emily out into the hallway as Caroline took her arm and walked with her, and the maid closed the door behind them.

“Don’t let her distress you,” Charlotte said to Eloise after a moment. She would not be fatuous enough to suggest that what was said was not meant. It was blindingly obvious that it had been fully intended. “I daresay the shock has affected her judgment.”

Eloise’s face shadowed with a ghost of humor, wraithlike and bitter.

“Her judgment, perhaps,” she answered. “But only insofar as previously she would have thought the same, whereas good manners would have prevented her from saying it.”

Charlotte slid more comfortably into her seat. Dr. Mulgrew might yet be some time.

“She is not the pleasantest of persons,” she observed.

Eloise met her eyes; for the first time she appeared actually to see her, not some inward scene of her own.

“You do not care for her.” It was a statement.

“Not a great deal,” Charlotte admitted. “Perhaps if I knew her better—” She left the suggestion as a polite fiction.

Eloise stood up and walked slowly over toward the French windows and stood facing the rain.

“I think a great deal of what we like about people is what we do not know but imagine to be there. That way we can believe the unknown is anything we wish.”

“Can we?” Charlotte looked at her back, very slender, with shoulders square. “Surely to continue to believe what is not true is impossible, unless you leave reality altogether and sink into madness?”

“Perhaps.” Eloise suddenly lost interest again and her voice was weary. “It hardly matters.”

Charlotte considered arguing, purely as a principle, but she was overwhelmed by the grief and futility that drowned the room. While she was still struggling to think of anything to say that had meaning, the parlormaid returned to announce that Dr. Mulgrew had arrived.

Shortly afterward, when the doctor was upstairs with Tormod and Eloise was waiting on the landing, the maid returned to ask Charlotte if she would receive Monsieur Alaric until Eloise should reappear.

“Oh.” She caught her breath. Of course it would be impossible to refuse. “Yes, please—ask him to come in. I am sure Miss Lagarde would wish it.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The girl withdrew, and after a moment Paul Alaric appeared, soberly dressed, his face grave.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Pitt.” He showed no surprise, so he must have been forewarned of her presence. “I hope you are well?”

“Quite, thank you, Monsieur. Miss Lagarde is upstairs with the doctor, as I imagine you already know.”

“Yes, indeed. How is she?”

“Most terribly distressed,” she answered frankly. “I cannot remember having seen anyone look so shocked. I wish there was something we could say or do to comfort—it is frightening to be so helpless.”

She had been afraid, almost angry in anticipation of it, that he might say something trite, but he did not.

“I know.” His voice was very quiet, his mind seeking to understand the pain. “I really don’t feel I can be of any use, but not to call seems so indifferent, as if I did not care.”

“Are you a great friend of Mr. Lagarde’s?” she inquired with surprise. She had not considered a realm of his life where he might find company with a man as much younger and as relatively slight in his pursuits as Tormod Lagarde. “Please do sit down,” she offered as composedly as she could. “I daresay they will be a little while as yet.”

“Thank you,” he said, moving the skirts of his coat so he did not sit on them. “No, I cannot say that I found much in common with him. But then tragedies of this sort override all trivial differences, don’t they?”

She looked up to find his eyes on her, curious and quite devoid of the impersonal glaze she was accustomed to in social conversation. She smiled slightly to show she was calm and grave and composed; then, as an afterthought, she smiled again, to show that she agreed with him.

“I see it has not kept you away,” he continued. “It would have been quite excusable for you to have found other business and avoided what can only be painful. You do not know the Lagardes well, I believe? And yet you felt a desire to come?”

“I fear to little enough good,” she said with sudden unhappiness. “Except perhaps that Mama and Emily removed Mrs. Denbigh.”

He smiled, and the irony inside him went all the way to his eyes.

“Ah, Amaryllis! Yes, I imagine that was something of a kindness in itself. I don’t know why, but there seems to be little love lost between her and Eloise. It would have been a source of considerable pain had they become sisters-in-law.”

“You don’t know why?” Charlotte was surprised. Surely he could not be so blind! Amaryllis was intensely possessive and her feeling for Tormod was almost devouring in its heat. The thought of living in a household with Eloise would be unbearable to her. When two women shared a house, there was always one who became superior; that it should be Eloise was unlikely, and for Amaryllis intolerable, but if Eloise were driven, however subtly, into a subordinate position, then Tormod would feel a sense of obligation, even of pity, toward her, and that might be worse. No, if Paul Alaric could not see why Amaryllis felt as she did, he was disappointingly lacking in imagination.

Then she looked at his face and realized he had not understood that Eloise would remain with them. But Tormod could hardly leave her alone! She was young and desperately vulnerable—even if it would be socially acceptable, which it was not.

“I had formed the impression that Mrs. Denbigh was extremely fond of Mr. Lagarde,” she began. What a ridiculously inadequate use of words for the violence of feeling she had seen in Amaryllis, the appetite of mind and body that boiled so close below the surface.

Slowly he smiled, without pleasure. He had seen it too.

“Perhaps I have too little insight, but a wife and a sister do not seem mutually exclusive.”

“Really, Monsieur.” Suddenly she was impatient with him. “If you were totally in love with someone, if you can conceive of such a feeling”—the acid of her rage for Caroline dripped through her voice—“would you care to share your daily life with somebody who knew that person infinitely better than you did? Who had a lifetime of memories in common, all the laughter and secrets, the friends, the childhood echoes—”

“All right. Charlotte—I understand.” Suddenly he reverted to the moment of friendship they had shared in those terrible days in Paragon Walk when other jealousies and hatreds had seethed into murder. “I have been insensitive, even stupid. I can see that to someone like Amaryllis it would be unendurable. However, if Tormod is as badly injured as I have heard, then the question of marriage will never arise.”

It was a statement of a truth that must have been obvious, yet the words fell like ice into the room. They were still silent, each wrapped in his own conception of its enormity, when Eloise returned.

She regarded Alaric without interest, as if she did not recognize him except as a shape, another figure that required acknowledgment.

“Good afternoon, Monsieur Alaric. It is kind of you to call.”

The sight of her face, stiff, eyes sunken with shock, affected him more than anything Charlotte could have said. He forgot his manners, a lifetime of polite expressions. There was nothing in him but untutored emotion.

He put out his hand and grasped hers, his other hand touching her arm gently, as if her skin might bruise.

“Eloise, I’m so sorry. Don’t give up hope, my dear. One cannot know what may be possible, with time.”

She stood quite still, not moving away from him, although it was not plain whether she was comforted by his closeness or simply oblivious to it.

“I don’t know what to hope for,” she said simply. “Perhaps that is very wrong of me?”

“No, not wrong,” Charlotte said quickly. “You would have to be omniscient to know what is best. You cannot blame yourself, and please do not even think of it.”

Eloise shut her eyes and turned away, pulling her arm from Alaric, leaving him standing confused, aware he was in the outside of some tremendous grief and unable to reach it or share it.

Charlotte felt a certain compassion for him, but her first feeling was for Eloise. She stood up and went to her, putting her arms around her and holding her tightly. Eloise’s body was yielding, lifeless, but Charlotte held on to her just the same. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Alaric’s face, tight with pity, and then silently he turned and left, closing the door behind him with a tiny click as the latch went home.

Eloise did not move, nor did she weep; it was as if Charlotte were holding a sleepwalker whose nightmare imprisoned her mind and soul elsewhere. Yet Charlotte felt that her presence, the contact of her warmth, was worth something.

Minutes went by. Someone clattered up the back stairs. Rain drove in a gust against the windows. Still neither of them spoke.

At last the door opened and the maid spoke, then was overcome with embarrassment. “Mr. Inigo Charrington, ma’am. Shall I tell him you are not at home?”

“If you would inform Mr. Charrington that Miss Lagarde is not well,” Charlotte said quietly. “Ask him to wait in the withdrawing room, and I shall go to him in a few moments.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The girl withdrew gratefully, without waiting for Eloise to confirm the command.

Charlotte stood for a moment longer, then guided Eloise to the sofa and laid her on it, kneeling beside her.

“Do you not think you would be better to lie down for a while?” she suggested. “Perhaps a dish of tea, or an herbal tisane?”

“If you wish.” Eloise obeyed because she had no will to argue.

Charlotte hesitated, still not sure if there was anything else she could do, then accepted at last that it was futile and went to the door.

“Charlotte!”

She turned. For the first time there was expression in Eloise’s face, even her eyes.

“Thank you. You have been kind. I may not appear as if I value it, but I do. You are right. Perhaps I shall drink something, and sleep for a while. I feel very tired.”

Charlotte felt a surge of relief, as if hard knots inside her had slipped loose.

“I’ll tell your maid to see that no one else is admitted for today.”

“Thank you.”

After delivering the directions to the maid and the footman, Charlotte went into the withdrawing room where Inigo Charrington stood by the mantelshelf, his face creased with anxiety, his coat still over his arm as if he were unsure whether to stay or go.

“Is she all right?” he said without any pretense at formality.

“No,” Charlotte replied with equal honesty. “No, she isn’t, but I don’t know of anything else we can do to help.”

“Should you have left her?” Inigo’s face creased. “The last thing I want is for my calling to cause further distress.”

“I sent the maid for a dish of tisane. Then I think she will rest for a time. Sleep will not alter the facts; she will still have to face them when she awakes, but she may have a little more strength for it.”

“It’s absolutely bloody!” he said with sudden anger. “First poor Mina, and now this!”

Charlotte was appalled to hear herself reply, “And your own sister—”

“What?” His quicksilver face was blank, almost comically empty.

This time embarrassment made her hold her tongue.

“Oh,” Then he realized what she had said. “Oh yes. You mean Ottilie.”

She wanted to apologize, to undo her intrusion, but she knew how close it could lie to Mina’s death, and murder. And she had learned only too dreadfully how one murder could beget another—and another. Mina was not necessarily the last victim.

“I believe her death was very sudden—I mean, quite unexpected. It must have been a devastating shock.” She had meant to be subtle, and ended by sounding crass.

“Unexpected?” Again he repeated her words. “Mrs. Pitt! Of course, how stupid of me. The policeman! But why the interest in Ottilie? She was eccentric, to put it at its mildest, but she certainly never harmed anyone—least of all Mina.”

“That is the third time someone has said that she was eccentric,” Charlotte said thoughtfully. “Was she really so very unusual?”

“Oh yes.” He smiled at the memory. “She did some appalling things. Once she got up on the dining table at dinner and sang a bawdy song. I thought Papa would die of it. Thank God no one else was there but the family, and one or two of my friends.” His eyes were alight, gleaming with the memory, laughter and softness in them.

“Embarrassing, if it were to be repeated.” Charlotte was confused by him; surely no man could act affection so perfectly and be lying? “One cannot afford a great deal of that if one is to remain in Society.”

His face was bright, with mockery in it, but no malice, as if he himself were part of the joke.

“You know, Mrs. Pitt, I have the strongest feeling that in spite of your afternoon-tea behavior, you are a good deal more your husband’s wife than your mother’s daughter! You think we quietly suppressed Ottilie somewhere, don’t you? Perhaps imprisoned her in our country house, locked in a disused wing, with an old family retainer to guard her?”

Charlotte felt the crimson heat flood up her face. She was blundering, and yet she must not stop; there would not be another chance.

“Actually, I thought you might have murdered her,” she said tartly, furious with herself for her clumsiness. “And perhaps Mina knew it? She was a Peeping Tom, you know. And maybe a thief as well!”

His eyes opened wide in surprise.

“A Peeping Tom, yes, but a thief? Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Several things have gone missing in Rutland Place recently.” She could still feel the scarlet under her skin. “None of them are very valuable of themselves, but at least one holds a secret which would be most embarrassing if it were to become known. Perhaps Mina was the thief, and she was killed to retrieve whatever it was?”

“No,” he said with conviction. “Whatever she was killed for, it had nothing to do with the thefts. Anyhow, most of the things have been returned. They always are.”

She stared at him. “Returned? How do you know?”

He took a long, slow breath. “I do. Just accept that. I have seen the things. Ask the people who lost them, they’ll tell you.”

“My mother lost something. She did not say she has it back.”

“Presumably it was the article containing the embarrassing secret you spoke of, since you are aware of it. Maybe she was afraid you would think she stole it back. You have a highly suspicious mind, Mrs. Pitt!”

“I would hardly suspect my own mother of—” She stopped.

“Killing Mina?” he finished for her. “Perhaps not—but would the police be so well-disposed?”

“Where did Ottilie die? It was not at your country house, as you said.”

“Oh.” For several minutes he remained silent, standing with one foot on the hearth, and she waited. “Tell you what,” he said at last. “Come with me and I’ll show you!”

She exploded in frustration. “Don’t be ridiculous! If it is something so secret—”

“Bring your own carriage,” he interrupted. “And your own footman if you like.”

“Policemen do not have carriages!” she snapped. “Or footmen!”

“No, I suppose they don’t. Sorry. Bring your mother’s. I’ll prove to you we didn’t murder Ottilie.”

Her mind raced to find a way of accepting that was not wildly foolish. If he or his family had killed Ottilie, and then Mina, they would not balk at killing her just as easily. Yet perhaps she was being offered the solution. And if the stolen articles had really been returned, how did Inigo Charrington know it? Why had Caroline not told her? Anyway, why would a thief take them and then return them? It made no sense—unless it was involved with the murder. Had Mina been the thief, and had the murderer retrieved all the stolen things to mask the recovery of the one thing that would have damned him?

Suddenly the solution came to her. Emily would never permit such an opportunity to escape, and she could provide the means for Charlotte to accept.

“I shall take my sister’s carriage,” she replied with an assurance she hoped she could justify. “And naturally I shall tell her for what purpose, and who is to accompany me.”

“Excellent! Have you considered joining the police force yourself?”

“Don’t be impertinent!” she said acidly, but inside excitement was boiling up.

He smiled. “I think you would enjoy it enormously. Actually, I think I might myself. I shall collect you at six o’clock. What you are wearing will be adequate, if you take off that thing from the neck.”

“At six o’clock?” She was startled. “Why not now?”

“Because it is barely half past three, and far too early.”

She did not understand, but at least by six o’clock she would have had opportunity to make some arrangement with Emily, both to borrow the carriage and to be perfectly sure that Inigo Charrington did not imagine he could harm her in any way and remain at liberty himself.

When she arrived at her mother’s house and explained the matter to her sister—out of Caroline’s hearing, of course—Emily was aghast. Her immediate reaction was that Inigo had undoubtedly murdered his sister and now intended to do away with Charlotte as well.

“He would hardly be so foolish,” Charlotte replied, trying to weight her voice with conviction. “After all, if anything were to happen to me when you all know I am in his company, then he would damn himself completely. I believe he really is going to tell me how Ottilie died and show me some proof of it. I certainly will not believe it without proof!”

“Then I shall come with you,” Emily said instantly.

It was only with difficulty that Charlotte succeeded in persuading her that her presence might risk the whole venture. If the nature of Ottilie’s death had been such that the family was prepared to have it known, then Pitt would have discovered it in his own attempts. She could think of no satisfactory reason why Inigo was now willing to tell her, except that perhaps fear of the still greater danger of being suspected of murder hung over them. But if it were a matter of desperate embarrassment, even of humiliation, then the fewer people who were aware of it the easier for the family. And also since Charlotte was not of their own social circle, perhaps they would not suffer so acutely for her knowing the truth.

Emily accepted the argument with reluctance, but she was obliged to concede its validity. At least she made no protest about lending both her carriage and her footman. She would take the use of her mother’s to return to her home.

Inigo called at six o’clock precisely, dressed in an elegant coat of darkest green with a fine top hat.

It was on the tip of Charlotte’s tongue to ask him where on earth they might be going, but she bit back the words, remembering the need for discretion. Caroline had already delivered herself of her opinion of Charlotte’s behavior, and she forbore expressing it again in front of Inigo.

Inside the carriage he made sure that she was comfortable, then offered no further remark, but sat silent, a smile curving his mouth, while they drove through gaslit streets Charlotte had not seen before, seemingly toward the heart of the city.

She lost track of time. They turned endless corners till her sense of direction, which had never been good, vanished, and when at last they pulled up she could not have made even a guess where they were.

Inigo climbed out and handed her down. The lamps were brilliant in the street, and some on the front of a large building were of different colors.

“Electric,” he said cheerfully. “There are quite a few of them now.”

She stared around her. There was music coming from somewhere, and a dozen or more people on the pavement, mostly men, some of whom were in evening dress.

“Where are we?” she asked in bewilderment. “Where is this?”

“It is a music hall, my dear,” he said with a sudden, flashing smile. “One of the best. Ada Church is singing here tonight, and she’ll pack ’em in.”

“A music hall!” Charlotte was stunned. She had been expecting a cemetery, a clinic, or even a madhouse—but a music hall! It was preposterous—like a black farce.

“Come on.” He took her arm and pushed her toward the doorway. She thought of resisting; she was both frightened and intensely curious. She had heard of Ada Church—she was said to be very handsome, and had one of the best music hall acts. Even Pitt had once commented that she had beautiful legs—of all things! He had smiled as he said it, and she had recognized that he was teasing, so she had refrained from asking him how he knew!

“Good evening, Mr. Charrington, sir.” The doorman raised his hand in a little salute, although his eyes registered surprise at Charlotte. “Good to see you again, sir.”

“You’ve been here before!” Charlotte accused him. “And often!”

“Oh yes.”

She stopped, pulling against his arm. “And you have the impertinence to bring me with you! I know I am a policeman’s wife, but I do not frequent places like this! I’ll have you remember that there are a great many things men may do and women may not! Now you have had your rather cheap joke. I accept that it was tasteless and cruel of me to ask what happened to your sister. You have your revenge, and my apologies. Now please take me home!”

He held on to her arm tightly, too tightly for her to break away.

“Don’t be so pompous,” he said quietly. “You aren’t any good at it. You wanted to know what happened to Ottilie. I’m going to tell you, and prove it. Now stop making a scene and come in. You’ll probably even enjoy it, if you let yourself. And if you don’t want to be seen here, then don’t stand in the entranceway where everybody can look at you making a spectacle of yourself!”

His logic was irrefutable. She jerked her head in the air and sailed in on his arm, looking neither right nor left, and permitted him to seat her at one of the numerous tables in the center of the floor. She was dimly aware of tiers of boxes and balconies, like a theater, of a brilliantly lit stage, of gaudy colors, flounced dresses low off the shoulders, and the black and white of rich men’s clothes mixed with the duller browns of those less comfortable, and even the checks of men come from the local streets. Waiters wove their way through the throng, glasses sparkled as they were raised and lowered, and all the time there was the murmur of voices and the lilt of music.

Inigo said nothing, but she was conscious of his bright face watching her, curiosity and laughter so close to the surface she could feel it as if he touched her.

A waiter came over and he ordered champagne, which in itself seemed to amuse him. When it came, he poured, lifted his glass, and toasted her.

“To detectives,” he said, his eyes silver in the light. “Would to God all mysteries were so simple.”

“I’m beginning to think it is the detectives who are simple!” she replied acidly, but she accepted the champagne and drank it. It was pleasantly sharp, neither sour nor sweet, and she felt less angry after it. When he poured more, she accepted that too.

Presently a juggler came onto the stage, and she watched him without particular interest. She granted that what he was doing was extremely difficult, but it seemed hardly worth the effort. He was followed by a comic who told some very odd jokes, but the audience seemed to find them hilarious. She had a suspicion she had failed to understand the point.

The waiter brought more champagne, and she became aware that she was beginning to find the colors and the music rather pleasing.

A chorus of girls appeared and performed a song she was sure she had heard before, and then a man popped up and twisted himself into the oddest contortions.

At last there was silence and then a roll of drums. The announcer held up his hands.

“Ladies and gentlemen, for your exclusive entertainment and enchantment, the culmination of your entire evening, the quintessence of beauty, of daring, of sheer dazzling delight—Miss Ada Church!”

There was a thunder of applause, even whistles and shouts, and the curtain went up. There was only one woman on the stage, slender with a tiny waist and long, long legs encased in black trousers. A tailcoat and white shirt hid nothing of her figure, and a top hat was perched at a rakish angle on a pile of flaming red hair. She was smiling, and the joy seemed to radiate out of her to fill the whole hall.

“Bravo, Ada!” someone shouted, and there was more clapping. As the orchestra started to play, her rich, throaty voice rang out in a gay, surging, bawdy song. It was less than vulgar, but there was an intimacy to it, full of suggested secrets.

The audience roared its approval and sang the chorus along with her. By the third song, Charlotte found to her horror that she was joining in as well, music swelling up inside her with a pleasant, tingling happiness. Rutland Place seemed a thousand miles away, and she wanted to forget its darkness and its miseries. All that was good was here in the lights and the warmth, singing along with Ada Church, and the vitality that conquered everything.

It would have shocked Caroline rigid, but now Charlotte was singing as loudly as the rest in the rollicking chorus: “Champagne Charlie is my name!”

When at last the curtain came down for the final time, she stopped clapping and turned to find Inigo staring at her. She ought to have felt embarrassed, but somehow she was so exhilarated it did not seem to matter.

He held up the last bottle of champagne, but it was empty. He signaled for the waiter to bring another. Inigo had barely opened it when Charlotte saw Ada Church herself walking toward them, giving a little wave of her arm, but gracefully avoiding the hands stretched out at her. She stopped at their table, and Inigo stood up immediately and offered her his chair.

She kissed him on the cheek, and he slipped an arm around her.

“Hello, darling,” she said casually, then turned a dazzling smile on Charlotte.

Inigo bowed very slightly. “Mrs. Pitt, may I present my sister Ottilie? Tillie, this is Charlotte Pitt, the daughter of one of my neighbors, who has rather let her family down by marrying into the police! She fancied we had done away with you, so I brought her here to see that you are in excellent health.”

For once, Charlotte was staggered beyond words.

“Done away with me?” Ottilie said incredulously. “How absolutely marvelous! You know, I do believe the thought occurred to Papa, only he didn’t have the nerve!” She began to laugh; it rose bubbling in her throat and rang out in rich delight. “How superb!” She clung onto Inigo’s arm. “Do you mean the police are actually questioning Papa as to what he did with me, because they suspect him of murder? I do wish I could see his face as he tries to explain himself out of that! He’d almost rather die than tell anyone what I really am!”

Inigo kept his arm around her, but suddenly his humor vanished.

“It’s a good deal more than that, Tillie. There has been a murder, a real one. Mina Spencer-Brown was poisoned. She was a Peeping Tom, and it rather looks as if she saw something worth killing to keep secret. Not unnaturally, it occurred to the police that your disappearance might be that something.”

Ottilie’s laughter vanished instantly, and her hands tightened over his arm, long, slender hands with knuckles white where they gripped the stuff of his sleeve.

“Oh God! You don’t think—”

“No,” he said quickly, “it’s not that. Papa has no idea—and I really don’t think Mama cares. In fact, it has occurred to me, looking at her face across the table, that half of her rather wants everyone to know, especially him.”

“But you put them back?” she said urgently. “You promised—”

“Of course I did, once I knew where they belonged. No one else knows.” He turned to Charlotte. “I’m afraid my mother has a regrettable habit of picking up small things that do not belong to her. I do my best to replace them as soon as possible. I’m also afraid I took rather longer than usual with your mother’s locket, because she said nothing about losing it so I didn’t know to whom it belonged. I doubt I need to explain all the reasons for that?”

“No,” Charlotte said quietly. “No, better not.” She was puzzled. She liked Ambrosine Charrington. “Why on earth should she resort to petty stealing?”

Inigo pulled over another chair, and he and Ottilie sat down. Seeing them so close together, Charlotte realized the resemblance was quite marked. There could be no doubt who “Ada Church” was.

“Escape,” Ottilie said simply, looking at Charlotte. “Perhaps you can’t understand that? But if you had lived with Papa for thirty years, you might. Sometimes you get to feel so imprisoned by other people’s ideas and habits and expectations that part of you grows to hate them, and you want to break their ideals, smash them, shock those people into really looking at you for once, reaching through the glass to touch the real flesh beyond.”

“It’s all right.” Charlotte shook her head. “You don’t need to explain. I’ve wanted to stand on the table and scream myself, once or twice, tell everybody what I really thought. Perhaps after thirty years I would have. Do you like it here?” She looked around at the tables, the sea of bodies and faces.

Ottilie smiled, without pretense. “Yes. I love it. I’ve cried myself to sleep a few times, and I’ve had long, lonely days—and nights. And a good few times I’ve thought I was a fool, or worse. But when I hear the music, the people singing with me, and the applause—yes, I love it. I daresay in ten years or fifteen I shall have nothing but vanity and memories, and wish I’d stayed at home and married suitably—but I don’t think so.”

Charlotte found herself smiling as well; the champagne still glowed inside her.

“You might marry well anyway,” she said, and then suddenly her tongue felt awkward, and the next sentence did not sound quite as she had intended it should. “People from music halls sometimes do, so someone said—didn’t they?”

Ottilie looked at her brother. “You’ve been filling her with champagne,” she accused.

“Of course. That way she’ll have an excuse in the morning. And I daresay not recall quite how much she enjoyed slumming!” He stood up. “Have some yourself, Tillie. I must take Charlotte home before her husband sends half the metropolitan police out for her!”

Charlotte did not hear what he said. The music had started in her head again, and she was happy for him to lead her to the door, collect her cloak, and send for the carriage. The air outside was sharp; its coldness made her feel a little dizzy.

He handed her up and closed the door, and the horses clopped gently through silent streets.

Charlotte began to sing to herself and was still going through the chorus for the seventh time when Inigo helped her down outside her own front door.

“Champagne Charlie is my name!” she sang cheerfully and rather loudly. “Champagne drinking is my game! There is nothing like the fizz, fizz, fizz. I’ll drink every drop there is, is, is! I’m the darling”—she hesitated, then remembered—“of the barmaids! And Champagne Charlie is my name!”

The door swung open, and she looked up to see Pitt staring at her, his face white and furious, the gas lamp in the hallway behind him making a halo around his head.

“She’s perfectly safe,” Inigo said soberly. “I took her to meet my sister—after whom I believe you have been inquiring?”

“I—” Charlotte hiccupped and slid neatly to the floor.

“Sorry,” Inigo said with a slight smile. “Good night!”

Charlotte was not even aware of Pitt bending down to pick her up and heave her inside with a comment that would have blistered her ears had she heard it.

Chapter Nine

CHARLOTTE WOKE UP with the most appalling headache she could ever remember. Pitt was standing at the far side of the bedroom opening the curtains, and she could not even see the red flowers on them. The light was painful; she closed her eyes in defense against it, then rolled over to hide her face in the pillow. The movement was a mistake. Hammer blows shivered through her skull and shot round her forehead, tightening the very bones.

She had never felt like this carrying Jemima! A little sickness in the mornings certainly—but never a head as if her brains were trying to beat their way out!

“Good morning.” Pitt’s voice cut through the thick silence, cold and definitely far from solicitous.

“I feel awful,” she said pathetically.

“I’m sure you do,” he said.

She sat up very slowly, holding her head with both hands.

“I think I may be sick.”

“I shouldn’t be in the least surprised.” He was distinctly unmoved.

“Thomas!” She hauled herself out of bed, ready to cry with misery and an awful feeling of unexplained rejection. Then suddenly the whole evening returned to her—the music hall, Ottilie, Inigo Charrington, the champagne, and the silly song.

“Oh God!” Her legs folded under her, and she sat down on the edge of the bed sharply. She was still in half her underwear, and there were pins in her hair, uncomfortable, poking into her head. “Oh, Thomas! I’m so sorry!”

“Are you going to be sick?” he asked with only slightly more concern.

“Yes, I think so.”

He came over and picked up the chamber pot from under the bed. He put it in her lap for her and pushed back her hair.

“I suppose you realize what could have happened to you?” he said, the ice in his voice changing to anger. “If Inigo Charrington or his father had killed Ottilie, it would have been the simplest thing in the world for them to have killed you too!”

It was several minutes before Charlotte was well enough to defend herself, to explain all her precautions.

“I took Emily’s carriage and Emily’s footman!” she said at last, gulping to get her breath. “I’m not entirely stupid!”

He took the pot from her and offered her a glass of water and a towel.

“That’s a subject I wouldn’t try debating just now if I were you,” he said sourly. “Do you feel better now?”

“Yes, thank you.” She would like to have been dignified, even aloof, but she had placed herself in an impossible position for it. “Everyone knew I was with him! He couldn’t have done anything and got away with it, and I made sure he was as aware of that as I.”

“Everyone?” His eyebrows rose, and there was a dangerously light tone in his voice.

Mercifully she realized her omission before he was obliged to tell her.

“I mean Mama and Emily,” she corrected. It occurred to her to say she had sent the footman with a message for him, but she had never been able to lie to him successfully, and her head was too thick to be able to sort out enough wit to be consistent now. And consistency was vital to a good lie. “I didn’t tell you because I thought I should be home before you were.” She began to sound indignant. “I didn’t know it was going to be a music hall! He simply said he would show me what had happened to Ottilie and prove they had not harmed her!”

“A music hall?” For a moment he forgot to be angry.

She sat upright on the edge of the bed. At least the nausea had gone, and it was easier to achieve a little dignity.

“Well, where did you imagine I had been? I was not in a public house, if that’s what you think!”

“And why was it necessary to look for Ottilie Charrington in a music hall?” he said skeptically.

“Because that’s where she was,” she answered with some satisfaction. “She ran away to go on the halls! She’s Ada Church.” A sudden memory came back to her. “You know, the one with the nice legs!” she added spitefully.

Pitt had the grace to color. “I saw her professionally,” he said tartly.

“Your profession or hers?” Charlotte inquired.

“At least I came home sober!” His voice rose with offended justice.

Her head was splitting, like a boiled egg being sliced off at the top, and she did not in the least wish to quarrel with him any further.

“Thomas, I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t realize it would affect me like this. It was just fizzy and nice. And I went there to find Ottilie Charrington.” She pushed her hair back and began to take out the most painful of the pins. “After all, someone killed Mina! If it wasn’t the Charringtons, then maybe it was Theodora von Schenck.”

He sat down on the end of the bed, his shirttails hanging out, his tie undone.

“Is Ada Church really Ottilie Charrington?” he asked seriously. “Charlotte, are you absolutely sure? It wasn’t some obscure joke?”

“No, I’m sure. For one thing, she looked a lot like Inigo. You could see they were related. And something else I forgot! Ambrosine is the thief! Apparently she’s been doing it for some time. Inigo always puts everything back as soon as he can, when he knows who they belong to. I suppose nobody admitted to finding them this time in case you suspected them of having murdered Mina for the things.”

“Ambrosine Charrington?” He stared at her, confused and disbelieving. “But why? Why ever should she steal things?”

Charlotte took a deep breath. “Do you mind if I lie down again? Grace will look after Jemima. I don’t think I can. If I stand up, my head will fall off.”

“Why should Ambrosine Charrington steal things?” he repeated.

She tried to remember what Ottilie had said. As far as she could recall, she had understood it very well at the time.

“Because of Lovell.” She struggled for a way of explaining it. “He’s ossified!” She lay down very carefully, and a little of the pain subsided.

“He’s what?”

“Ossified,” she said again; the word pleased her. “Gone to bone. He doesn’t listen and he doesn’t look. I think part of her hates him. After all, her daughter’s gone away and they have to pretend she’s dead—”

“For heaven’s sake, Charlotte, people of that class don’t have daughters on the halls! It would be unthinkable to him!”

“I know that!” She pulled the covers closer around her chin. Quite suddenly she was cold. “But that wouldn’t stop Ambrosine from loving Ottilie. I’ve met her. She’s really very nice—the sort of person you want to smile at. She makes everything seem a little better. Maybe if Lovell wasn’t such a prune she wouldn’t have gone on the halls. She might have found it all right just to kick over the traces at home every now and again.”

Pitt sat still for a few moments. “Poor Ambrosine,” he said presently.

A dreadful thought occurred to Charlotte. She sat bolt upright, dragging all the clothes with her.

“You aren’t going to arrest her?” she demanded.

He looked appalled. “No, of course not! I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. There’s no proof. And Inigo would certainly deny it. Not that I shall ask him.” He pulled a face. “Still, it removes the thefts as a motive for Mina’s death—although the Charringtons could still have killed her, I suppose.”

“Why? Ottilie isn’t dead!”

His face took on a look of infinite scorn. “And how do you imagine Lovell would care for it to be known in Society that Ada Church, the toast of the halls, is his daughter? He’d probably sooner be charged with her murder! At least it wouldn’t be so damned funny!”

She twisted up her face painfully, torn between irony and frustration. She wanted to laugh, but the very idea hurt.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Write a letter to Dr. Mulgrew.”

She did not understand; the answer seemed ridiculous.

“Dr. Mulgrew? Why?”

He smiled at last. “Because he is in love with Ottilie. He might like to know she’s alive after all. I don’t imagine he’ll care very much about her being on the halls. Anyway, he should have the right to find out.”

Charlotte leaned back on the pillow with a deep sigh of satisfaction.

“You are interfering,” she said pleasantly. She liked to think of Ottilie finding someone who would love her.

He grunted and tucked in his shirttails rather untidily.

“I know that.”

Just before eleven o’clock, when Charlotte was still asleep, she dimly heard a knock on the door, and the next moment Emily was beside her.

“What’s the matter with you?” Emily demanded. “Gracie wouldn’t let me in! Are you ill?”

Charlotte opened her eyes. “She didn’t make a very good job of it!” She squinted up at Emily sideways without moving. “I’ve got a terrible headache.”

“Is that all? Never mind that.” Emily dismissed it and sat down on the bed. “What happened? What about Ottilie Charrington? How did she die, and did her family do it? If you don’t tell me, I shall shake you till you are really sick!”

“Don’t touch me! I’m sick now! She isn’t dead. She’s excellently alive, and singing in the music halls.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Emily’s face creased with disbelief. “Who told you that?”

“Nobody told me. I went to the music hall and saw her myself. That’s why I feel so awful now.”

“You what?” Emily was incredulous. “You went to a music hall? What on earth did Thomas say? Honestly!”

“Yes, I did. And Thomas wasn’t very pleased.” Then memories came back, and Charlotte began to smile. “Yes, I did. With Inigo Charrington, and I drank champagne. Actually it was rather fun, once I got started.”

A comical mixture of expressions chased across Emily’s face: shock, laughter, and even envy.

“Serves you right you’re sick,” she said with some satisfaction. “I wish I’d been there! What was she like?”

“Marvelous. She really can sing, and in a way that makes you want to sing with her. She’s—so very alive!”

Emily tucked up her legs more comfortably.

“So no one murdered her. Then that can’t be why Mina was killed.”

“Yes, it could.” Charlotte recalled Pitt’s argument. “They might have wanted to keep that hidden. After all, she’s Ada Church!”

“Well, who is Ada Church?” Emily was puzzled.

“Ottilie is! Don’t be stupid!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Emily was too curious to be offended.

“Ada Church is one of the most famous singers on the halls.”

“Is she? I don’t know the music halls as well as you do!” There was distinct acid in her tone. “But that would be worth hiding. And there’s always Theodora’s income to look into. I expect Thomas is doing that. But we still have to do something about Mama and Monsieur Alaric!”

“Oh yes, I forgot about the locket. She has it back.”

“She never told me!” Emily was angry, affronted by the callousness of it.

Charlotte sat up very slowly and was surprised that her head felt considerably better.

“She didn’t tell me either. Inigo Charrington did. It was his mother who took it, and he put it back.”

“Ambrosine Charrington took it? Whatever for? Explain yourself! Charlotte, did you get drunk?”

“Yes, I think I did. On champagne. But that’s what he said. I wasn’t drunk then.” She explained with care what she could remember. “But that doesn’t mean Mama can go on with her relationship with Monsieur Alaric.”

“No, of course not,” Emily said. “We’d better do something, and before it gets any worse. I’ve been giving it some thought lately, and I’ve come to a decision. We must try to persuade Papa to pay more attention to her, flatter her more, spend time with her. Then she will have no need of Monsieur Alaric.” She looked up at Charlotte, challenging her to argue. She would leave the matter of Ambrosine Charrington and Charlotte’s champagne to another time.

Charlotte considered it for a moment or two in silence. It would not be easy to convey to Edward the importance of such a course, and the change it would necessitate in his behavior, without allowing him to understand the reason for their concern, the danger of Caroline beginning a real affaire with Paul Alaric— not just suppressed passion anymore, but something that might end up in the bedroom. She frowned and took a deep breath.

“Oh, not you!” Emily said immediately. “I just want you for moral support, to agree with me. Don’t you say anything, or you’ll bring on a complete disaster.”

It was not a time to take issue: defense could wait for a more suitable time.

“When are you going?” Charlotte asked.

“As soon as you have dressed. And you had better wash your face with cold water and pinch your cheeks a bit. You are very pasty.”

Charlotte gave her a sour look.

“And you’d better wear something bright,” Emily went on. “Do you have a red dress?”

“No, of course I don’t.” Charlotte crawled out of bed. “Where should I wear a red dress to? I’ve got a wine-colored skirt and coat.”

“Well, put it on and have a cup of tea. Then we’ll go and call on Papa. I’ve arranged it. I know he is at home today, and Mama has a luncheon engagement with a friend of mine.”

“Did you arrange that as well?”

“Of course I did!” Emily spoke with deliberate patience, as if to a rather tiresome child. “We don’t want her coming home in the middle! Now hurry up and get ready!”

Edward was delighted to have the company of both his daughters and sat at the head of the luncheon table with a smile of complete contentment on his face.

“How very pleasant to see you, my dear,” he said to Charlotte. “I’m so glad Emily found you at home and able to come. It seems a long time since I saw you last.”

“You have not been home when we have called lately.” Charlotte took her cue without waiting for Emily.

“No, I suppose not,” Edward said without giving it thought.

“We have been quite frequently,” Emily said casually, taking a little roast chicken on her fork. “And then gone out visiting with Mama. Quite an agreeable way to spend one’s time, providing one is not required to do too much of it. It can become tedious—the conversations are so much the same.”

“I thought it was an occupation you enjoyed?” Edward looked mildly surprised. He had not considered the matter greatly, merely taken it for granted.

“Oh, we do.” Emily ate the chicken and then frowned at him. “But incessant female company has very limited pleasures, you know. I’m sure that if George did not offer me his companionship in the evening and take me to dinner elsewhere occasionally, I should find myself longing for the conversation of some other gentleman. A woman is not at her best unless there is a man she admires to observe her, you know?”

Edward smiled indulgently. He had always found Emily the easiest of his daughters, without being aware that it was largely because she was also the most skilled at judging his moods and masking her own feelings accordingly. Sarah had been too impatient and, being the eldest and the prettiest, a little selfish, and Charlotte was far too blunt and would talk about totally unsuitable things, which embarrassed him.

“George is a fortunate man, my dear,” he said, helping himself to more vegetables. “I hope he appreciates it.”

“I hope so too.” Emily’s face suddenly became serious. “It is one of the saddest things that can happen to a woman, Papa, for her husband to lose his regard for her, his desire for her company, his general observance of her well-being. You have no idea how many women I have seen begin to look elsewhere for admiration because their husbands have grown to ignore them.”

“To look elsewhere?” He was a little startled. “Really, Emily, I hope you do not mean what that sounds like? I would not care to think of you associating with such women. Others might think the same of you!”

“I should dislike that very much.” She was perfectly grave. “I have never given George the least cause for displeasure with my conduct, especially on that subject.” She opened her eyes very wide and blue. “And yet, on the other hand, I cannot find it in my heart entirely to blame a woman whose husband has begun to treat her with indifference, if some other man, with pleasant manners and agreeable nature, should find her attractive and tell her so—and she should, in her loneliness, be equally drawn to him—”

“Emily!” Now he was shocked. “Are you condoning adultery? Because that is unfortunately close to what it sounds like!”

“Oh, certainly not!” she said with feeling. “Such a thing will always be wrong. But there are some situations when I cannot find it in me to say that I do not understand.” She smiled at him. “Take Monsieur Alaric, the Frenchman, for instance. Such a handsome man, so beautifully mannered, and such an air about him. Do you not agree, Charlotte? I wondered once or twice if perhaps poor Mina was in love with him and not Tormod Lagarde at all. Monsieur Alaric has so much more maturity, don’t you think? Even a touch of mystery about him, which is most compelling. I have often wondered if he is really French. We have only assumed it. Now if Alston Spencer-Brown had been devoting too much of his attention to his business affairs, and had begun to grow so accustomed to Mina that he seldom paid her a compliment anymore, or bothered with any little romantic gestures, such as flowers, or a visit to the theater”—she drew breath—“then Monsieur Alaric would only have to flatter her a little, exhibit the merest admiration, and she would be enchanted with him. He would be the answer to all her unhappiness and her feeling of no longer mattering.”

“That is no excuse—” he began, but his face was noticeably paler and he had forgotten the chicken. “And you should not speculate about people in such a disgraceful way, Emily! The poor woman is dead and quite unable to defend herself!”

Emily was unperturbed. “I am not suggesting it as an excuse, Papa. One does not need excuses—only reasons.” She finished the last of her meal and set down her knife and fork. “Now that poor Mina is dead, I have observed that Monsieur Alaric has found Mama most pleasant and has sought her company to walk with and to talk with.” She smiled brightly. “Which shows him to be a man of improving taste! Indeed, Charlotte has said he seems most sympathetic. I do believe Charlotte was quite drawn to him herself.”

Charlotte looked across the table at Emily with less than affection. There seemed to be a shade of malicious pleasure in her tone.