Rutland Place

“Charming,” she agreed, avoiding her father’s eye. “But I presume that Mama is not in Mrs. Spencer-Brown’s unfortunate situation?”

Edward stared from one to the other of them. Twice he opened his mouth to demand that they speak more clearly what they meant. And twice he decided he did not wish to know.

The maid came and cleared away the dishes and then brought in the pudding.

“It has been some time since we went to the theater,” Edward remarked at last, very casually, as if it were a totally new thought. “There must be something new of Gilbert and Sullivan out now. Perhaps we should go and see it.”

“An excellent idea,” Emily answered, equally lightly. “I can recommend a good jeweler if you have a fancy to give Mama some small keepsake? He has a most romantic turn of mind and is not overly expensive. I know he has quite lovely cameos, because I wished George to buy me one. I always think they are so personal.”

“Don’t organize me, Emily!”

“I’m sorry, Papa.” She smiled at him charmingly. “It was only a suggestion. I am sure you will do much better yourself.”

“Thank you.” He looked at her with dry humor, but his hands were still tight on his napkin and he sat very upright in his chair.

Emily took a little more pudding.

“This is delicious, Papa,” she said sweetly. “It was so nice of you to invite us.”

Edward forbore commenting that she had invited herself.

At half past two Edward returned to the city.

“What are you going to do about Mina?” Emily asked as soon as she and Charlotte were alone. “We still have no idea who killed her, or even why.”

“Well, the obvious reason is that she snooped once too often,” Charlotte answered.

“I had imagined that for myself!” Emily was a little waspish now that the tension of the interview with Edward was over. “But upon whom?”

“It could have been the Charringtons—if not over Ottilie, then maybe over Ambrosine taking things.” Charlotte was thinking aloud. “But personally I think Theodora von Schenck is more likely. I can remember Mina making remarks about her income and where it came from. I think maybe she already knew, and she was having fun stirring up our suspicions. Perhaps in time she would even have told us.” Her face darkened as the ugliness of the reality opened up in front of her. “That’s pathetic, isn’t it—seeking to impress people and make yourself interesting by spreading pieces of gossip about people, hinting that you know terrible secrets.”

“It’s damnably dangerous!” Emily’s mouth pulled into a hard, unforgiving line. “Think of the harm she could do to other people, never mind what happened to her! I suppose she hardly deserved to be killed for it, but it’s a wicked thing to do nevertheless.”

“And pathetic,” Charlotte insisted. “She must have had nothing of her own inside herself to be forever staring outwards, needing to know about other people’s lives.”

“That hardly excuses her!” Emily was angry. “Everybody’s unhappy some time or other—we don’t all go around prying and repeating!”

Charlotte did not bother to argue. “She was worse than that,” she said. “She invented, sowing seeds of all sorts of vicious things. I suppose there is an ugly side to most people’s imaginations, if you want to reach for it.” She changed her expression entirely. “You were excellent with Papa, but we still have to discourage Monsieur Alaric a little. I have heard he knows Theodora quite well. I shall go and call on him this afternoon and see if he has any idea where her money comes from.”

Emily’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed? And how do you propose to introduce yourself to such a call, let alone elicit that kind of information from him?”

“I shall throw myself on his mercy.” Charlotte made a rapid and rather violent decision.

“You’ll do what?” Emily was startled.

“With regard to Mama—you fool!” Charlotte snapped, her face suddenly hot. “I shall contrive to let him know that Papa is aware of the—friendship—and that he does not look kindly on it.”

“You never ‘contrived’ anything in your life!”

“I didn’t say I was going to be subtle! Then when I have done that, I shall talk about Mina and how upset everyone is. Why? What are you going to do?”

“If that is what you are going to do, then I shall go and call upon Theodora at the same time, before Monsieur Alaric has an opportunity to warn her, if by chance they are in it together. If there is anything to be in? It will be a little difficult because I don’t know her, but if you can go to a music hall with Inigo Charrington, I daresay I shall manage an unintroduced call upon Madame von Schenck!”

“You need not have brought up the music hall again!” Charlotte said sourly. “That was unnecessary.”

“Well, don’t worry, I shan’t tell Thomas you went alone to call on Monsieur Alaric,” Emily returned. “In fact, I think you would be wise not to let him know you have any continued interest in the affair at all.”

“If you imagine he will suppose I have forgotten it, you hardly know Thomas.” Charlotte made a rueful face. “He wouldn’t believe it for a moment!”

“Then use a little sense—and at least make sure you stay sober!” Emily responded. “You can take my carriage to Monsieur Alaric’s house, and I shall walk. That way it will be marginally more respectable.”

“Thank you!”

Charlotte had misgivings as soon as the carriage turned out of Rutland Place, and were it not that she would appear such a fool, she would have called the driver and told him to return her at once.

But she was committed. It was an extraordinary thing to do, and possibly Alaric would misinterpret her motives; her face flushed hot at the thought of it. Caroline was certainly not the only woman to have become so dazzled by him as to have lost all sense of proportion!

By the time the carriage pulled to a stop in Paragon Walk and the footman handed her out, she sincerely hoped that Paul Alaric was not at home and she would be spared the whole affair and could retire with integrity. But fortune was against her—he was not only at home, but received her with pleasure.

“How charming to see you, Charlotte.” He stood a little away from her, smiling, and if he was surprised he concealed it entirely. But of course he would; not to do so would be discourteous.

“That is very generous of you, Monsieur Alaric,” she replied, then instantly felt stiff. She was barely through the door, and already her interview was not going the way she had intended. Perhaps in France, or wherever he came from—they had all assumed he was French, but no one recalled his saying so—it was less familiar there to use a person’s Christian name.

He was still smiling, and she collected her scattered wits with an effort.

“Please forgive my calling upon you without either invitation or having left my card beforehand.” That was ridiculous and he knew it as well as she did, but it afforded her a way to begin.

“I am sure the circumstances are quite unusual,” he said gently. “May I offer you some refreshment—a dish of tea?”

It would give her something to occupy her hands graciously, and would mean that her stay would be at least half an hour.

“Thank you,” she said. “That would be most pleasant.” She sat down on the most comfortable-looking chair, and he rang the bell, gave the maid instructions, and then sat opposite her on a simple dark velvet sofa.

The room was unusually spare of ornament; there were great numbers of leatherbound, gold-tooled books in a mahogany case, a soft gray seascape above the mantel, and a Turkish prayer rug so brilliant it was like a cathedral window. The whole was alien . . . and beautiful.

He was sitting easily, still smiling, one leg crossed over the other, but there was a seriousness about his eyes. He knew she would not have come over any trivial or social matter, and he was waiting for her to begin.

Her mouth was dry; all small talk eluded her.

“Emily and I have been dining with Papa,” she said rather abruptly.

He did not interrupt, still watching her steadily, frankly.

She took a breath and plunged on. “We were obliged to discuss a rather painful subject—quite apart from Mina’s death, or poor Tormod’s injury.”

A shadow of concern crossed his face. “I’m sorry.”

She had very little knowledge how much of the relationship was purely on Caroline’s part. She must be careful, as she had so far seen him display nothing beyond extreme courtesy. Either he was far more discreet than Caroline or—more probably—he was unaware of the depth of her feeling. After all, he did not know Caroline as Charlotte did.

She cleared her throat. Now that she must either commit herself or allow the subject to drop and talk of something else, she found it unexpectedly difficult. She was very conscious of him sitting only a few feet away from her.

Once, she had considered him as the leader of a black magic ritual—that seemed preposterous now. But was she crediting him with less vanity and more compassion than he possessed? Might he not enjoy the fascination he held for them, seemingly without effort?

She swallowed and began again, sounding far more pompous than she wished. “It seems that Papa has been too much engaged in his business lately and has not paid the attention to his domestic life that he should. Poor Mama has felt a little neglected, I think. Of course she has not complained. One cannot ask for small signs of affection from one’s husband, because even if he responds they are then of no value—you feel you have prompted them yourself, and he does not truly mean them.”

“So you and your sister have prompted him?” he suggested, understanding beginning to show in his eyes.

“Quite,” she agreed quickly. “We would be deeply distressed to see our family hurt by a misapprehension. In fact, we do not intend to allow it to happen. These things grow out of hand very quickly—new affections form, other parties are drawn in, and before you can undo it, there is . . .”

He was looking directly at her, and she found herself unable to go on. It was quite obvious now that he knew what she meant.

“A domestic tragedy,” he finished for her. She noticed with surprise that there was a faint color under his skin, a consciousness of himself—a raw and unpleasing light. Suddenly, with a rush of warmth for him, she realized he had been unaware of his power, underrating its depth completely.

Either he had not understood other women in the past or he had considered their own natures the cause and himself merely the unfortunate catalyst.

“I think tragedy is the appropriate word,” she continued. “Perhaps we should look a little more closely at what passions can do. For example, take Mrs. Denbigh. You have seen her? Her despair over Mr. Lagarde would hardly be covered by so gentle and commonplace a term as unhappiness, do you think?”

For several minutes he was silent, and she began to grow uncomfortable as she became aware of his eyes on her. She was very sensitive to being alone in the room with him. Visiting him by herself in his home was a ridiculous thing to have done, and she should have insisted that Emily come with her. Someone was bound to have seen her; there was always a servant about. There would be talk! She had no reputation to lose—Paragon Walk did not care about her—but what about Emily? Someone might have recognized Charlotte from the time when she had stayed with Emily during the murders here.

And what of Paul Alaric himself?

She blushed with discomfort at her own thoughtlessness—and yet she had not wished Emily to accompany her!

Very slowly she raised her eyes to meet his and was startled by the perception in them, a closeness as if he and she had touched, as if her skin had felt a sudden warmth, a tingling.

She must leave. She had said what she came for. Emily’s carriage was at the door and would take her back to Rutland Place. She could join Emily at Theodora von Schenck’s house.

Thought of Theodora reminded her of the other purpose of her visit. She must force herself to ask him now; the idea of returning was unthinkable.

The maid brought the tea and retired. She took a sip of it gratefully; her mouth was dry and her throat tight.

“Emily has called to see Madame von Schenck,” she remarked as conversationally as she was able. “I believe you know her quite well.”

He was surprised, and his dark eyes widened. “Moderately. The acquaintance is more a business one than social, although I find her very congenial.”

Now it was she who was startled. She had hardly expected him to be so frank.

“Business? What sort of business do you mean?” Then, realizing how blunt that sounded, she went on: “I did not know Madame von Schenck had business. Or did you perhaps know her husband?” She stammered, “I—I mean—”

“No.” He smiled faintly at her embarrassment, but there was no unkindness in it. “I did not, although I believe he was a most charming man. So much so that she has never desired to remarry.”

Charlotte pretended that she found such a thing hard to understand, although in truth the thought of remarrying, should anything happen to Pitt, was quite absurd to her.

“Not even for the security of having a husband?” She tried to sound sincere. “After all, she has two children to support.”

“And an excellent business head.” He was quite openly amused now. “Not in the least a fashionable thing to have, which I imagine is why she is discreet about it. Especially since her particular interest lies in the area of bathroom furniture!” His smile broadened. “Not exactly what the ladies of Rutland Place would find suitable—the design of baths and other such hardware. And she is most imaginative in selling and precise in her finances. I think she has begun to make a considerable profit.”

She knew there was a silly smile on her face. It was all so ridiculously harmless, even funny, that she wanted to laugh. She gathered herself and was ready to rise, but before she could frame the words to excuse herself, the maid opened the door again to bring in a choice of cakes and was followed immediately by Caroline.

Charlotte froze, halfway to her feet, the smile dead on her lips.

For an instant Caroline did not see her; her face was turned to Alaric, soft with excitement and pleasure.

Then she saw Charlotte, and every vestige of color bleached out of her skin. She looked at her as she might have at some horned thing risen out of the ground.

There was absolute silence in the room. The maid was too frightened to let go of the trolley.

With a tremendous effort Caroline took a deep breath, and then another.

“I beg your pardon, Monsieur Alaric,” she said in a shaking voice. “I appear to have interrupted you. Do excuse me.” She stepped backward past the maid and out the door.

Charlotte glanced for a moment at Paul Alaric and saw his face as white and appalled as she knew hers must be, mirroring the same realization and guilt that she felt. Then she ran across the room, pushed the maid aside, and swung the door open.

“Mama!”

Caroline was in the hallway and could not have failed to hear her, but she did not turn her head.

“Mama!”

The footman opened the front door and Caroline walked out into the sun. Charlotte went after her. Snatching her cloak from the footman as she passed, she clattered down the steps and out onto the street.

She caught up with Caroline and took her arm. It was stiff, and Caroline shook her off sharply. She kept her face straight ahead.

“How could you?” she said very quietly. “My own daughter! Is your vanity so much that you would do this to me?”

Charlotte reached for her arm again.

“Don’t speak to me.” Caroline jerked away roughly. “Don’t speak to me, please. Not ever again. I don’t wish to know you.”

“You’re being stupid!” Charlotte said as fiercely as she could without raising her voice for the whole street to hear. “I went there to find out if he knew how Theodora von Schenck got her money!”

“Don’t lie to me, Charlotte. I’m perfectly capable of seeing for myself what is going on!”

“Are you?” Charlotte demanded, angry with her mother not for misjudging her but for being so vulnerable, for allowing herself to be swept away by a dream till the awakening threatened everything that really mattered. “Are you, Mama? I think if you could see anything at all, you would know as well as I do that he doesn’t love you in the least.” She saw the tears in Caroline’s eyes, but she had to go on. “It isn’t anything to do with me, or any other woman! He is simply unaware that your feeling for him is anything more than pleasant—a little relief from boredom—a courtesy! You have built up a whole romantic vision around him that has nothing to do with the kind of person he is underneath. You don’t even know him really! All you see is what you want to!” She held on to Caroline’s arm, this time too hard for her to snatch it away.

“I know exactly how you feel!” she went on, keeping up with her. “I did the same with Dominic. I pinned all my romantic ideals onto him, put them over him like a suit of armor, till I had no idea what he was like underneath them. It isn’t fair! We haven’t the right to dress anyone else in our dreams and expect them to wear them for us! That isn’t love! It’s infatuation, and it’s childish—and dangerous! Just think how unbearably lonely it must be! Would you like to live with someone who didn’t even look at or listen to you, but only used you as a figure of fantasy? Someone to pretend about, someone to make responsible for all your emotions so that they are to blame if you are happy or unhappy? You have no right to do that to anyone else.”

Caroline stopped and stared at her, tears running down her face.

“Those are terrible things to say, Charlotte,” she whispered, her voice difficult and hoarse. “Terrible.”

“No, they aren’t.” Charlotte shook her head hard. “It is just the truth, and when you’ve looked at it a bit longer you’ll find you like it!” Please God that could be true!

“Like it! You tell me I have made a ridiculous fool of myself over a man who doesn’t care for me at all, and that even the feeling I had was an illusion, and selfish, nothing to do with love—and I shall come to like that!”

Charlotte threw her arms around her because she wanted to be close to her, share in her pain and comfort her. Besides, looking at her face right now would be an intrusion into privacy too deep to allow forgetting afterward.

“Maybe ‘like it’ was a silly phrase, but when you see it is true, you will find the lies something you don’t even want to remember. But believe me, everyone who was ever capable of passion has made a fool of themselves at least once. We all fall in love with a vision sometime. The thing is to be able to wake up and still love.”

For a long time neither of them said anything more, but stood in the footpath with their arms around each other. Then very slowly Caroline began to relax, her body lost its stiffness, and the pain changed from anger to simple weeping.

“I’m so ashamed of myself,” she said softly. “So terribly ashamed!”

Charlotte’s arms tightened. There was not anything else to say. Time would ease it away, but words could not.

In the distance there was the sound of hooves, someone else making an early visit.

Caroline straightened up and sniffed hard. For a moment her hand lingered on Charlotte’s; then she withdrew it and fished in her reticule for a handkerchief.

“I don’t think I shall make any more calls this afternoon,” she said calmly. “Perhaps you would like to come home for tea?”

“Thank you,” Charlotte said. They began to walk again, slowly. “You know, Mina was quite wrong about Theodora. Her money doesn’t come from a brothel at all, or blackmail—she has a business for selling bathroom furniture!”

Caroline was stunned. Her eyebrows shot up.

“You mean—”

“Yes, water closets!”

“Oh, Charlotte!”

Chapter Ten

TWO DAYS LATER PITT was still as confused as ever about who had killed Mina Spencer-Brown. He had a wealth of facts, but no conclusions that were subject to proof—and, worse than that, none that satisfied his own mind.

He stood still on the pavement of Rutland Place in the sun. It was warm there, sheltered from the east wind by the high houses, and he stopped to collect his thoughts before going on to Alston for yet more questioning.

He had been talking to Ambrosine Charrington, and the interview had left him less sure than he had been before he went. It was always possible that Mina had observed Ambrosine in the act of stealing and Ambrosine had been unable to deny it. If that had been so, Mina might have threatened her with exposure.

But would Ambrosine have minded? From what Charlotte had told him, that was far from the case! She might even have been perversely pleased by the disgrace. Ottilie had said it was her motive for doing it in the first place, a desire to shock and distress her husband, to break out of the mold into which he had cast her. Of course she might well not see it so lucidly herself. But he found it impossible to believe she would commit murder to protect a secret she half wanted known.

Did she hate Lovell enough to have allowed Mina to blackmail him? In theory it was possible. It had an irony that would appeal to Ambrosine.

And yet he felt that he would have had some sense of the anger and the tension in Lovell, and of the bitter taste of satisfaction in Ambrosine herself. And he had not. To him she seemed just as elegantly imprisoned as before, and Lovell just as undisturbed in his massive, impregnable security.

Mention of Ottilie had shaken Lovell’s composure most markedly, and he had become white-lipped, sweat-browed. He had tried intensely to hide the whole affair. Yet Ambrosine left Pitt entirely comfortable!

Perhaps it was Alston Spencer-Brown after all? Maybe Mina’s long-standing involvement with Tormod Lagarde had finally proved too much for him, and when Alston had learned that she was still enamored, he had procured more belladonna from some other doctor, in the city, poured it into the cordial, and left it to do its work.

All Pitt’s investigations had pointed to the conclusion that Mina’s infatuation with Tormod had been discreet but very real. Many a husband had killed for less, and Alston’s ordinary exterior could hide a violent possessiveness, a sense of outrage where murder might seem to him no more than justice.

Pitt was driven back to the facts. The cordial wine was homemade, a mixture of elderberry and currants. People in Rutland Place did not make their own wines! Of course, it was impossible to tell who might have been given some, and if they had used it to mask poison, they would hardly own to its possession now.

The belladonna could have been distilled by anyone, or even crushed from the deadly nightshade plant itself, which, while less common than the brightly flowered woody nightshade, was far more lethal. It did not need the fruit that ripened in the autumn; even the leaves were sufficient. And they might be found in hedgerows or woodlands in any wild area in the southeast of the country.

It was perhaps a little early for a biennial plant, but in a sheltered place—or even blown and taken root in a conservatory or hothouse? A few shoots above the ground would be enough.

The facts proved nothing. Anyone could have given her the bottle, at almost any time. Mina’s servants had not seen it before, or any like it, but then one does not always tell servants of cordial wine. It is not drunk at table. Anyone could have picked the nightshade and crushed the leaves. It required no skill, no special knowledge. It was well-known lore that the plant killed; every child was warned. Even its name told as much.

He was driven back again to motive, although you could not damn anyone on motive alone. One man will kill for sixpence, or because he feels he has been insulted. Another will lose reputation, fortune, and love—anything rather than commit murder.

He was still standing in the sun when a hansom cab swung around the far corner and clattered down the Place, jolting to a stop in front of the Lagardes’ entrance.

Pitt was close enough to see Dr. Mulgrew practically fall out, clutching his bag, and scramble up the steps. The door opened before he got to it, and Mulgrew disappeared inside.

Pitt hesitated. Natural instinct prompted him to wait there a while and see what should happen next. But then, since there was a man in desperate injury in the house, an emergency call for the doctor was not surprising and probably had nothing whatsoever to do with Mina’s death. If Pitt were honest, he would admit that he was using the doctor’s arrival as an excuse to put off the next round of questions.

When Pitt got to the Spencer-Browns’ Alston was out, which in a way was a relief, although it only postponed what would have to be done another time. He contented himself with talking to the servants again, going over endless recollections, impressions, opinions.

He was still there, sitting in the kitchen accepting with considerable pleasure the cook’s offer of luncheon with the rest of the servants, when the scullery door burst open, a maid ran in, and the smells of stew and puddings were dissipated by the scents of sharp wind and earthy vegetables.

“For goodness’ sake, Elsie, close that door!” the cook snapped. “Where were you brought up, girl?”

Elsie kicked at the door with one foot, obeying out of habit.

“Mr. Lagarde’s dead, Mrs. Abbotts!” she said, her eyes like saucers. “Just died this morning, so May from over the way says! Seen the doctor come, she did, and go again. A mercy, I says! Poor gentleman. So beautiful, he was. Reckon as he was destined to die. Some of us is. Shall I go and shut the blinds?”

“No, you will not!” the cook said tartly. “He didn’t die in this house. Mr. Lagarde’s passing is not our business. We’ve enough of our own griefs. You just get on with your work. And if you’re late for luncheon you’ll go hungry, my girl!”

Elsie scuttled off, and the cook sat down sharply.

“Dead.” She regarded Pitt sideways. “I suppose I shouldn’t say so, but perhaps it is as well, poor creature. You’ll excuse me, Mr. Pitt, but if he was as terrible hurt as they say, could be the Lord’s mercy he’s gone.” She mopped her brow with her apron.

Pitt looked at her, a buxom woman with thick graying hair and an agreeable face, now twisted with a mixture of relief and guilt.

“A nasty shock, all the same,” he said quietly. “On top of all else that has happened lately. Bound to upset you. You look a bit poorly. How about a drop of brandy? Do you keep any about the kitchen?”

She looked at him through narrow eyes, suspicion aroused.

“I’m used to such things,” he said, reading her thoughts perfectly. “But you aren’t. Let me get you some?”

She bridled a little, like a hen fluffing out her feathers.

“Well—if you think— On the top shelf over there, behind the split peas. Don’t you let that Mr. Jenkins see it, or he’ll have it back in his pantry before you can say ‘knife.’ ”

Pitt hid his smile and stood up to pour a generous measure into a cup and pass it to her.

“How about yourself?” she offered with a little squint.

“No, thank you,” he said, and put the bottle back, replacing the split peas. “Strictly for shock. And I’m afraid it’s my business to deal with death, on occasion.”

She drank the cup to the bottom, and he took it and rinsed it out in the scullery sink.

“Most civil of you, Mr. Pitt,” she said with satisfaction. “Pity as we can’t help you, but we can’t, and that’s a fact. We never seen any cordial wine like that, nor any bottle neither. And we don’t know anything as to why anyone should want to murder the mistress. I still say as it’s someone what’s mad!”

He was torn between duty to continue with questions—so far totally unprofitable—and an intense desire to forget the whole thing and abandon himself to the pleasures of Mrs. Abbotts’ luncheon. He settled for the luncheon.

Afterward he considered whether to continue his questioning, but the shock of Tormod’s death hung heavy over everything. In many houses curtains were drawn, and a silence muffled even the usual civil exchanges till they seemed an indecency.

A little after two o’clock he gave up and returned to the police station. He pulled out all the evidence they had collected to date and began to read it over again, in the somewhat forlorn hope that a new insight would emerge, a relationship between facts that he had overlooked before.

He had discovered nothing by quarter to five, when Harris poked his head around the door and announced Amaryllis Denbigh.

Pitt was startled. He had expected that with the blow of Tormod’s death she would be prostrated with grief, even in need of medical care, so fierce had been her anguish over his accident, according to Charlotte. And he trusted Charlotte’s judgment of people, if not always of her own behavior! Although in truth he was less outraged by the music hall incident, now that he thought about it, than he intended she should know.

But why on earth was Amaryllis here?

“Shall I send her in, sir?” Harris said irritably. “She looks in a right state to me. You want to be careful of her!”

“Yes, I suppose you’d better. And stay here yourself, in case she faints or becomes hysterical,” Pitt said. The thought was an extremely unpleasant one, but he could not afford to deny her entrance. Perhaps at last this was the catalyst, and she might give him the sliver of fact he so desperately needed.

“Yes, Mr. Pitt, sir.” Harris withdrew formally, signifying his disapproval, and a moment later followed Amaryllis in.

Amaryllis was white-faced, her eyes glittering, her hands moving over the folds of her skirt, into her muff, and out again over her skirt. She had entered the room with black veiling over her face, but now she threw it off.

“Inspector Pitt!” She was so stiff her body shook.

“Yes, Mrs. Denbigh.” He did not like her, yet in spite of himself he was moved to pity. “Please sit down. You must be feeling distressed. May we offer you some refreshment, a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you.” She sat down with her back to Harris. “I should like to speak to you in private. What I have to say is very painful.”

Pitt hesitated. He did not want to be alone with her; she was obviously on the border of hysteria, and he was afraid of a storm of weeping that would be completely beyond his abilities to deal with. He thought of sending for the police surgeon. His eyes flickered to Harris.

“If you please?” Amaryllis’ voice was harsh, rising in a kind of desperation. “This is my duty, Inspector, because it concerns the murder of Mrs. Spencer-Brown, but it is extraordinarily painful for me and I do not wish the added mortification of having to repeat it in front of a sergeant!”

“Of course,” Pitt said immediately. He could not draw back now. “Sergeant Harris will wait outside.”

Harris stood up with a sour look of warning to Pitt over Amaryllis’ shoulder, then went out, closing the door firmly.

“Well, Mrs. Denbigh?” Pitt asked. It was a strange moment. He knew so much about these people, had studied them until they stalked his sleep, and yet now it was she, quite casually walking in here, unasked, who was about to tell him what might be the solution to the whole matter.

Her voice was grating, low, as if the words hurt her.

“I know who killed Mina Spencer-Brown, Mr. Pitt. I did not tell you before because I could not betray a friend. She was dead, and there was nothing to do for her. Now it is different. Tormod is dead too.” Her face was white and empty, like an unpainted doll. “There is no reason now to lie. He was too noble. He protected her all her life, but I shan’t! Justice can be done. I shall not stand in its way.”

“I think you had better explain, Mrs. Denbigh.” He wanted to encourage her, yet there was something inexpressibly ugly in the room and he could feel it as surely as damp in the air. “What lies have there been? Who was Mr. Lagarde protecting?”

Her eyes flashed wider. “His sister of course!” Her voice shook. “Eloise.”

He was surprised, but he stopped before speaking, masked his feelings, and looked across at her calmly.

“Eloise killed Mrs. Spencer-Brown?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know that, Mrs. Denbigh?”

She was breathing in and out so deeply he could see the rise and fall of her bosom.

“I suspected it from the first because I knew how she felt,” she began. “She adored her brother, she possessed him—she built her whole life around him. Their parents died when they were both young, and he has always looked after her. To begin with, of course, that was all quite natural. But as time passed and they grew older, she did not let go of the childish dependence. She continued to cling onto him, to go everywhere with him, demand his entire attention. And when he sought any outside interests she would become jealous, pretend to be ill—anything to bring him back to her.”

She took a long breath. She was watching Pitt, watching his eyes, his face.

“Of course if Tormod showed any natural affection for any other woman, Eloise was beside herself,” she continued. “She never rested until she had driven the woman away, either with lies or by feigning sickness, or else worrying at poor Tormod until he found it hardly worth his while to try anymore. And he was so kindhearted he still protected her, in spite of the cost to himself.

“I’m sure you have found out in all your questions that Mina was very attracted to Tormod? In fact, she was in love with him. It is stupid now to try to cover it with genteel words. It cannot hurt her anymore.

“Naturally that drove Eloise into a frenzy of jealousy. The thought that Tormod would give any of his attention to another woman was more than she could bear. It must have turned the balance of her mind. She poisoned the cordial you have been so assiduously seeking. I have had it offered to me in their house. They bring it from the country with them when they come back from visiting Hertfordshire. I have drunk it on occasion myself.”

She was sitting very upright in the chair, her eyes still fixed on Pitt’s.

“Mina went to their house that day to visit Eloise, as you already know. Eloise gave her the cordial wine as a parting present. She drank it when she got home—and died—as Eloise had planned that she should.

“Tormod protected her—naturally. He had brought her up from a child. I daresay he felt responsible—although God knows why he should. In time he would have had to have her put away in a sanatorium or somewhere. I think in his heart he knew that. But he could not bear to do it yet.

“Ask anyone who knew them. They will tell you that Eloise hated me also—because Tormod cared for me.”

Pitt sat without moving. It all made sense. He remembered Eloise’s face, her dark eyes full of inward vision, absorbed in pain. She was the sort of woman who cried out for protection. She seemed as frail as a dream herself, as if she would vanish at a sudden start or a shout. He did not want to think she had receded into madness and murder. And yet he could think of no argument to refute it, nothing false in what Amaryllis had said.

“Thank you, Mrs. Denbigh,” he said coldly. “It is late now, but tomorrow I shall go to Rutland Place and investigate fully what you have said.” He could not resist adding, “A pity you were not as frank with me before.”

There were faint spots of color in her face.

“I couldn’t. And it would not have done any good anyway. Tormod would have denied it. He felt responsible for her. She had driven him into that, over the years. She is a parasite! She never wanted him to have any separate being, and she succeeded! She spent her whole life, every day, all day, trying to make sure he felt guilty if he ever did anything without her, went anywhere without her—even if he laughed at a joke without her laughing too!” Her voice was rising again, shrill and hard. “She’s mad! You’ve no idea what it did to him. She destroyed him! She deserves to be locked away—forever and ever!”

“Mrs. Denbigh!” He wanted to silence her, to get rid of that glittering face with its girlishly soft lines and its hollow, hate-bright eyes. “Mrs. Denbigh, please don’t distress yourself again! I will go tomorrow and talk to Miss Lagarde. I shall take Sergeant Harris and we shall look for the evidence you say is there. If we find any proof at all, then we shall act accordingly. Now Sergeant Harris will accompany you to your carriage, and I suggest you take some sedative and go to your bed early. This has been a most terrible day for you. You must be exhausted.”

She stood in the middle of the floor staring at him, apparently weighing in her mind whether he was going to do as she intended.

“I shall go tomorrow,” he acceded a little more sharply.

Without replying, she turned and walked out, closing the door behind her, leaving him alone and unaccountably miserable.

There was no way he could avoid it, this duty that gave him no satisfaction at all, no sense of resolution. But then, murder always brought tragedy.

He dispatched Harris to search yet again, this time particularly bedrooms and dressing rooms, for any cordial wine similar to that which Mina had drunk, or any empty bottles like the one found in Mina’s room. He also took the precaution of showing Harris a picture of the deadly nightshade plant, so that he might look for it in the conservatory and outhouses. Neither its presence nor its absence would prove anything, however, except that it was a country plant and would be unusual in the middle of London. But the Lagardes had a country house; there might be nightshade in every hedge or wood in Hertfordshire, for all he knew.

Eloise received him dressed completely in black; the blinds were drawn halfway in traditional mourning, the servants white-faced and somber. She sat on a chaise longue close to the fire, but she looked as if its heat would never again reach her.

“I’m sorry,” Pitt said instinctively—not only for his intrusion but for everything, for her loneliness, for death, for being unable to do anything but add to the burden.

She said nothing. What he did, perhaps what anyone did, no longer mattered to her. She was in a desolation beyond his power to touch, for good or ill.

He sat down. He felt ridiculous standing, as if his hands and feet might knock something over.

There was no point in stringing it out, trying to be tactful. That somehow made it worse, almost obscene, as if he did not recognize death.

“Mrs. Spencer-Brown came to see you the day she died.” It was a statement; no one had ever denied it.

“Yes.” She was uninterested.

“Did you give her a bottle of cordial wine?”

She was staring into the flames. “Cordial wine? No, I don’t think so. Didn’t you ask that before?”

“Yes.”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, Miss Lagarde, because the poison was in it.”

A smile passed over her face, as shadowy as a ripple of cold wind over water.

“And you think I put it there? I did not.”

“But you did give her the wine?”

“I don’t remember. I may have. Perhaps she was looking peaked and said she was tired, or something like that. We do have cordial wine. A neighbor in Hertfordshire gives it to us.”

“Do you still have any?”

“I expect so. I don’t like it, but Tormod did. It’s kept in the butler’s pantry—it’s safe there. It’s quite strong.”

“Miss Lagarde—” She did not appear to understand the consequence of what they were discussing. She was removed from it, as though it were all a story about someone else. “Miss Lagarde, it is a very serious matter.”

She looked up at him at last, and he was stricken by the pain and horror in her eyes—not for him, but for something else, something only she could see. Her expression was devoid of any kind of anger, any hatred—only horror, endless immeasurable horror.

Was this madness he was seeing? Or perhaps the knowledge of madness in one still sane enough to see herself and know what lies ahead, the irrevocable descent into the black corridors of lunacy?

No wonder Tormod had tried to protect her! He yearned to do so himself, to prevent it, to bring her back any way he knew how. He could not think of anything to say. There was nothing large enough to encompass the enormity of what he thought he had seen.

He could not bear it. He stood up. There was no need to twist the knife with questions. The evidence was what mattered. Without that there was nothing they could do anyway, whatever he knew—or guessed.

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” he said awkwardly. “I’ll go and help Sergeant Harris. If there is anything else, I shall ask one of the servants. I’ll try not to interrupt you again.”

“Thank you.” She sat quite still and did not even turn to watch as he walked to the door and opened it. He left her motionless, looking neither at the fire nor at the white flowers on the table, but at something he could not see and had never seen.

It did not take them long to find at least one answer. Sergeant Harris had brought the empty bottle found in Mina’s bedroom and shown it to the servants. The butler recognized it.

“Did you give one of these to Miss Lagarde before Mrs. Spencer-Brown came here the day she died?” Pitt asked him grimly.

The man was not unintelligent. He saw the importance of the question, and his face was pale, a small muscle ticking in his jaw.

“No, sir. Miss Eloise never cared for it.”

“Mr. Bevan—” Pitt began.

“No, sir. I understand what you are saying. We bring half a dozen bottles or so when we come back from the country. But Miss Eloise never had any of it. She disliked it. Neither does she have keys to my pantry. I have one set, and Mr. Tormod had the other, but he left them in Abbots Langley last year at Christmas, and they are still there.”

Pitt took a deep breath. There was nothing to be served by shouting at the man.

“Mr. Bevan—” he began again patiently.

“I know what you are going to say, sir,” Bevan cut in. “I gave the wine to Mr. Tormod, a bottle at a time, as he asked for it. He had a bottle the night before Mrs. Spencer-Brown came. He used to drink it sometimes, and I thought nothing of it.”

Pitt could not blame him. When he and Harris had been there before, they had searched discreetly, but, fearing a guilty or even a protective servant would destroy the bottle, they had not described it or brought the one they had.

“What happened to the bottle, do you know?” he asked. “May I speak to the upstairs maid?”

“That will not be necessary, sir. I’ve asked her just now, since Mr. Harris came. She doesn’t know, sir. She hasn’t seen it again.”

“Then it could be the one given to Mrs. Spencer-Brown?”

“Yes, sir, I imagine it must be.”

“Is every other bottle accounted for?”

“Yes, sir. It is rather strong stuff, so I keep a check on it.”

“Why did you not mention it when we asked before, Mr. Bevan?”

“It is not a table wine, sir, so I imagine the other servants had not seen it. Such things are more usually kept in a medicine chest, or by a bedside. Since that was the last bottle, when a search was made no more would have been found.”

Pitt was irritated that a butler should explain his job to him so thoroughly. Or perhaps he was still thinking of Eloise, alone and unreachable. This man was not to blame. He could not have known the composition of the wine with which Mina was poisoned.

“So Mr. Tormod had the last bottle?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In his bedroom?”

“Yes, sir.” The man’s face was very solemn.

“Did he complain of missing it?”

“No, sir. And I would have heard of it if he had. We are most strict about intoxicating liquors.”

So when had Eloise poisoned it and given it to Mina?

Bevan moved from one foot to the other.

“If you’ll excuse me, sir, what makes you think Miss Eloise had the wine or gave it to Mrs. Spencer-Brown?”

“Information,” Pitt said dryly.

“Not from anyone in this house, sir!”

“No.” There was no point in being coy. “Mrs. Denbigh.”

Bevan’s face changed. “Indeed. Mrs. Denbigh is a very wealthy lady, sir, if you’ll pardon me for making so ill-mannered an observation. Very wealthy indeed, and handsome too. She was remarkably fond of Mr. Tormod, and I believe they might well have married. Always providing, of course, Mr. Tormod had no other involvements.”

Pitt took his meaning perfectly.

“Are you suggesting, Mr. Bevan, that it was Mr. Tormod, and not Miss Eloise, who murdered Mrs. Spencer-Brown?”

Bevan met his gaze without flinching.

“It would seem so, sir. Why should Miss Eloise kill her?”

“Jealousy over her brother’s affection,” Pitt replied.

“The relationship with Mrs. Spencer-Brown was over some time ago, sir. If he had married, it could never have been Mrs. Spencer-Brown—but it could well have been Mrs. Denbigh—a rich and handsome lady, free to marry, and, if you’ll pardon me, more than willing. And yet Mrs. Denbigh is alive and well.”

Pitt turned to Harris. “Have you looked in the conservatory, Harris?”

“Yes, sir. No nightshade. But that’s not to say it was never there. I don’t imagine our murderer would be foolish enough to leave it.”

“No.” Pitt’s face tightened. “No, probably not.”

“Will there be anything else, sir?” Bevan inquired.

“No, thank you. Not now.” Pitt was reluctant to say it, but it was the man’s due: “Thank you for your help.”

Bevan bowed very slightly. “You are welcome, sir.”

“Damn!” Pitt swore as soon as he judged the butler to be out of earshot. “Hellfire and damnation!”

“I’ll lay any odds you like he’s right,” Harris said with sincerity. “Makes a lot of sense. Rich and handsome widow, like he says. Old mistress making trouble, threatening to tell all, very embarrassing. Stand in the way of a lot of very nice money. Wouldn’t be the first time. Never prove it!”

“I know that!” Pitt said furiously. “Damn it, man, I know that!”

They walked through to the hallway and found Dr. Mulgrew coming down the stairs. He looked bleary-eyed, and his hair stood up in a quiff at the top of his head. He must have been there to treat Eloise.

“Good morning,” Pitt said tersely.

“Perfectly bloody,” Mulgrew agreed, not with Pitt’s words but with his tone of voice. “We’ve lost Tormod, you know. Injuries proved too much for him—heart finally carried him off.” Then he gave a sheepish smile. “I’ve got a head like a tin bucket. Need a hair of the dog, I think! Much obliged to you, Pitt. You’re a good man. Join me in a drink? Call for Bevan. I need something to clear this headache. Shouldn’t drink champagne at my age and then get up at dawn. Not natural.”

“Champagne?” Pitt glared at him.

“Yes, you know, fizzy stuff? ‘There is nothing like the fizz, fizz, fizz,’ ” he sang very softly in a remarkably pleasant baritone. “‘I’ll drink every drop there is, is, is.’ ”

Pitt was forced to smile, although it hurt.

“Thanks,” Mulgrew said, clasping him by the arm. “You’re a generous man.”

When Pitt arrived home in the evening, Charlotte was waiting for him. As soon as he entered the door, she knew from his face something had happened that had saddened and confused him. The day had been warm, and the parlor faced south. She had had the windows open onto the garden, and the smell of fresh grass was in the air. A few white narcissus sat in a slender jug, their fragrance as sharp and clean as spring rain.

“What is it?” Another time she might have waited, but not tonight. “What happened, Thomas?”

“Tormod is dead.” He took his coat off and let it fall onto the sofa. “He died this morning.”

She did not bother to pick it up.

“Oh.” She looked at his face, trying to match the news to the pain in him. She knew it was not enough. “What else?”

He smiled, and there was a sudden sweetness in it. He put out his hand and took hers.

She clung onto it hard. “What else?” she repeated.

“Amaryllis Denbigh came to the police station and told me it was Eloise who killed Mina. She said she had guessed it a long while ago but had said nothing, to protect Tormod. Now that he was dead, she didn’t care anymore.”

“Do you believe her?” she asked carefully. Her own mind wanted to reject the idea, but she knew that murder did not always lie where it was easy to understand, or to hate. Sometimes there is darkness underneath what seems to be light.

“I went to look.” He sighed and sat down, pulling her down next to him. “I found evidence. I don’t know whether it would stand in court—it might. But it doesn’t matter, because all I could say is that it was someone in that house, and the butler swears it must have been Tormod. He’ll stick to that—but whether it’s the truth or to protect Eloise, I don’t know. I probably never will.”

“Why should Eloise kill Mina?” she asked.

“Jealousy. She was intensely possessive of Tormod.”

“Then she would have killed Amaryllis. Amaryllis was the one he could have married,” she argued. “He wouldn’t have married Mina—she was no danger. She could never have been anything more than a mistress, and I doubt she was even that!”

“That’s what Bevan said—”

“The butler?”

“Yes.”

“Amaryllis is the possessive one.” Charlotte was thinking, turning ideas over in her mind, memories. “She hates Eloise enough to come to you and tell a lie like that. Even with Tormod dead, she still hates.”

“Well, don’t worry, I shan’t arrest Eloise.” He tightened his arm around her. “I haven’t any proof.”

She pulled away and looked straight at him. “What do you believe?”

He thought about it for a moment, his eyes on her as if he would explore her thought also.

“I think it was Tormod,” he answered at last. “I think Mina was being troublesome, pestering him, and he wanted to marry Amaryllis—for her money, among other things—and he killed Mina to keep her quiet. Perhaps she was threatening him.”

Charlotte sat back slowly, thinking. Poor Amaryllis had been so infatuated with Tormod that it had destroyed the gentleness in her, all the power of friendship, and had left no room for other loves or even decencies. Now she and Eloise could not even comfort each other.

“Strange what obsession can do,” she said aloud. “It’s very frightening. It seems to devour everything else. All your other values get eaten up.” She thought of Caroline and Paul Alaric, but she did not want to say it aloud. Better it was forgotten, even by Pitt, especially now that Edward showed signs of reforming. Last evening he had escorted Caroline to the Savoy Theatre to see the Mikado and had presented her with a garnet brooch besides.

Had Paul Alaric ever glimpsed the power he possessed to arouse women’s emotions? He had the kind of face that suggested great currents of passion underneath—a suggestion built upon all too easily by romantic women needing mystery, escaping from familiar men they believed they read without effort. Whether he had ever felt such great tides of passion himself, she could not know, but in that last moment when she and Caroline had left him staring at them helplessly, the shock of their passing had been like a wound in his face. For that alone she would always think well of him.

Tormod had awoken an even wilder hunger in Amaryllis. Something about him, some quality of body or mind, had enraptured her till she could think of nothing and no one else. He must have had an overwhelming charm, a magnetism that obliterated all other judgment.

And naturally Eloise had loved him; they had spent all their lives together. No wonder Amaryllis was jealous, excluded from all those years—

Suddenly an appalling thought flashed across her mind, so ugly she could not even name it, and yet the breath of it left her body cold.

“What’s the matter?” Pitt asked. “You’re shivering!”

The thought had been so hideous she was not prepared to give it words, even to him. Now that it had come to her, she would have to talk to Eloise and see if it was true, but not tonight—and perhaps she would not tell Pitt?

“Just glad it’s over,” she answered, and moved closer to him. She took his hand again and held it. The lie did not bother her. After all, it was only an idea.

In the morning she dressed in her darkest clothes and caught the omnibus. She got off at the nearest stop to Rutland Place and walked the rest of the way. She did not call on Caroline; in fact, if she was not seen, she did not mean to mention her visit at all.

The footman opened the door.

“Good morning, Mrs. Pitt,” he said in a hushed voice, stepping back to allow her in.

“Good morning,” she replied gravely. “I have called to express my sympathies. Is Miss Lagarde well enough to receive me?”

“I will inquire, ma’am, if you care to come this way. Mr. Tormod is in the morning room, but you will find it very chill in there.”

For a moment she was startled by the mention of Tormod as if he were alive; then she realized that naturally he would be laid out, and there would be those whose last respects included a look at the dead. Perhaps it was expected of her also?

“Thank you.” She hesitated, then went to view the dead man.

The room was dark, and as chill as the footman had said, possessed of the peculiar coldness of decay. Black crepe festooned the walls and the table legs, and there was a black cloth on the sideboard.

Tormod was in a dark, polished coffin on the table in the center, and the gas lamps were unlit. The outside sun, filtered through the blinds, gave a diffuse light, quite clear, and she was compelled against her will to go over and look at him.

The eyes had been closed, and yet she felt as if the expression were unnatural. There was no peace in the face. Death had taken the spirit, but his features held the unmistakable impression that his last emotion had been one of hatred, impotent and corroding hatred.

She looked away, frightened by it, trapped by something cold and all-pervasive that grew in her mind and rooted firmer and firmer.

The door opened silently and Eloise stood still a moment before coming in.

Now that they were face to face with the corpse between them, it was far harder than Charlotte had expected.

“I’m sorry,” she said awkwardly. “Eloise, I’m so sorry.”

Eloise said nothing, but her eyes stared straight back at Charlotte—direct, almost curious.

“You loved him very much,” Charlotte went on.

There was a flicker across Eloise’s face, but still she said nothing.

“Did you hate him as well?” Charlotte found the words coming more easily. Pity was stronger than embarrassment or fear. She wanted to reach out and touch Eloise, put her arms around her, hold her close enough to give her warmth, feed her own life into her frozen body.

Eloise breathed in hard and gave a little sigh. “How did you know?”

Charlotte had no answer. It had come from impressions gathered, a look, a word, things remembered from the dark understandings of the mind, hidden from thought because they are forbidden, too ugly to own.

“That was what Mina knew, wasn’t it?” Charlotte said. “That was why he killed her—it had nothing to do with past affaires, or marrying Amaryllis.”

“He would have married Amaryllis,” Eloise said softly. “I wouldn’t have minded that, even his not—loving me anymore.”

“But she wouldn’t have married him,” Charlotte replied. “Not if Mina had told everyone that you and Tormod were lovers, as well as brother and sister.” Now that the words were out, they were not so frightening—they could be said, the truth of them faced.

“Perhaps not.” Eloise was looking down at the dead face. She did not seem to care, and Charlotte knew suddenly that she had not reached the core of it yet. There was more truth to come, and worse. The self-hatred in Eloise, the despair, was more than a knowledge of incest, and then rejection, deeper than anything she had yet understood.

“How old were you when it began?” Charlotte asked.

Eloise reached out and touched the winding-sheet.

“Thirteen.”

Charlotte felt the tears well up inside her, and she experienced an overwhelming hatred of Tormod so profound she could look on his mangled body and his dead face without regret, so coldly as if he were fish on the market slab.

“You didn’t kill Mina, did you?”

Eloise shook her head. “No, but it doesn’t matter if the police think I did, because I’m guilty anyway.”

Charlotte opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“I let Tormod kill my baby.” Eloise’s voice was no more than a whisper. “I was with child, about four months. I didn’t realize for a long time—I didn’t know enough. Then when I did realize, I told Tormod. That was when I first met you. We didn’t go to the country because of Mina’s death. I went to get an abortion. I didn’t know till we got there. Tormod said I had to, because I am not married, and what we were doing was wrong. He said the child was not formed, that it would only be like—like a little blood.”

She was so ashen Charlotte was afraid she would not be able to stand, but she dared not move to help her. These words came from an agony so deep it must burst.

“He lied to me. It was my child!”

Charlotte felt the tears run down her face and, without thinking, her hands went to the surface that contained her womb and the child in it.

“It was my baby,” Eloise said. “They never let me touch it. They just got rid of it.”

Silence filled the room, but it seemed nothing could be vast enough to contain the pain.

“That is why I killed him,” Eloise said at last. “As soon as I was well enough, he took me out for a drive in the carriage. I pushed him off, and the other carriage and horses drove over him. It didn’t kill him. It only crippled him. We brought him back here to lie in that bed upstairs, tormented with pain, knowing he would never walk again. I used to go in and look at him. He was paralyzed, did you know? He couldn’t move, couldn’t even speak. He would just stare at me with hatred so strong I felt it would burn his body up. My own brother, whom I had loved all my life. I stood at the end of the bed and stared back. I wasn’t sorry. I hated myself, and I hated him. I even thought of killing myself. I’m not sure why I didn’t do it. But I wasn’t sorry for him. I couldn’t pity him.

“I can still see my baby’s body—in my mind. The doctor said I shall never have another. It was something they did.”

Charlotte moved at last. She walked around the coffin and closed the lid; then very gently she took Eloise’s hand, holding it in both her own.

“Are you going to tell the police?” Eloise said quietly.

“No.” Charlotte put her arms around her and held her hard, the sobs inside her struggling to get out. She must control herself. She took a deep breath. “No. He killed Mina—he would have been hanged for that anyway. It was wrong to kill him, but it’s done now. I shall never speak of it again.”

Slowly Eloise relaxed and let her head rest on Charlotte’s shoulder. At last, for the first time since she had seen the tiny body of her child, she began to weep.

For a long time, beyond counting, they stood together beside the closed coffin, letting the tears come, sharing the pain.

It was not until Inigo Charrington stood in the doorway, his eyes full of sympathy and affection, that at last Charlotte let go of Eloise.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

copyright © 1983 by Anne Perry

cover design by Jason Gabbert

978-1-4532-2230-0

This edition published in 2011 by Open Road Integrated Media

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New York, NY 10014

www.openroadmedia.com

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten