Silence in Hanover Close

10

EMILY WATCHED THE ashes of Charlotte’s letter crumbling in the morning room fire and felt a numbness, a sense of disbelief invade her mind. It was impossible. Thomas arrested for murder and imprisoned—it was absurd! Any moment now reality would reassert itself. She should not have burned the letter; she must have misread it. She looked at the red hollow in the coals where the paper had collapsed. There were only little incandescent folds left, and even as she watched, the draft caught them and they shivered to pieces and were consumed.

The door opened behind her and the butler came in.

“Are you all right, Amelia?” he said gently. There was concern in his voice, even something close to a personal tenderness. Dear God! She could not be coping with that now!

“Yes thank you, Mr. Redditch,” she said gravely. “My sister has been taken ill.”

“Yes, so Mr. Radley said. It was very good of him to come. Lady Ashworth must think most highly of you. What is it your sister suffers from?”

She had not even thought of that. “I don’t know,” she answered helplessly. “The—the doctors don’t know—that’s what is so worrying. Thank you for letting me have Saturday afternoon. It’s very good of you.”

“Not at all, my dear girl. Edith can cover for you; goodness knows you’ve covered for her often enough! Now you go into the kitchen and sit down. Take a cup of tea and recover yourself.” He touched her arm gently, and his hands were warm.

“Thank you, Mr. Redditch,” she said quickly. “Sir.”

He stepped back reluctantly. “If there is anything I can do, please feel you may ask,” he added.

She wanted to thank him, to smile and meet his eyes, let him know his kindness was not unnoticed, but she dared not. It might only cause more hurt in the end.

“I will, sir,” she said, looking down at her apron. “And I’ll go and get a cup of tea, as you said. Thank you.” And she hurried past him out into the hall, through the baize door and into the kitchen.

She sat in the kitchen with the large round teacup in her hands, her mind whirling as she tried to think what to do. Her first instinct was to rush to Charlotte to be with her, to protect her from the jeers, the doubts, and to be with her in the long evenings when there was nothing else to interrupt the fear.

But Charlotte was right; pain was incidental, it must be overcome alone if need be, because there was no time for comfort. They could not afford to huddle together for today’s hurt at the cost of tragedy which would darken all tomorrows. The answer was in the truth, and that lay here in Hanover Close. As Amelia, Emily was the only one with any chance of finding it.

She could no longer allow things to progress at their present pace. Obviously it all had to do with the woman in cerise, and whatever had happened here in this house three years ago. Perhaps it had been between her and Robert York; maybe there had been a third person. But Emily believed one of the women who was here now either knew or suspected the truth, and she was determined to wring it from her somehow.

What made people crack? Shock, panic, overconfidence? Pressure gradually increased until it was unbearable—that was it. There was no time to wait for mistakes to happen. Three years had accomplished nothing, and Loretta certainly was not one to give way to carelessness; her guard was impenetrable. One had only to look at her bedroom with its tidy drawers, everything in its place, all her gowns with their matching boots and gloves, to know that. Her underwear was extremely expensive, but it was all coordinated, nothing odd or impulsive. Her dinner gowns were individual, highly feminine, but there were no experiments, none of the errors of judgment Emily had in her own wardrobe, attempts to imitate someone else’s panache that had not quite worked, shades that had not flattered after all. There was nothing in the entire house that did not suit Loretta, either among her personal belongings or in the general furniture. Loretta did not make mistakes.

Veronica was different, a generation younger, and far more beautiful by nature. She had more flair, more courage; sometimes she ordered things on impulse and they were marvelous—that black gown with the jet-encrusted bodice was superb, better than anything Loretta could ever wear—but the gray silk was a disaster. Loretta would have known that and never run the risk. Sometimes Veronica was uncertain, full of self-doubt, and that made her rash; she tried too hard. Emily had been amazed at first to see her change her mind as to what she would wear, or how she would dress her hair. Yes, Veronica might well break under pressure, if it was severe enough, sustained enough.

It was a cruel thought, and an hour ago Emily would not have entertained it—but an hour ago she did not know Thomas was in prison awaiting trial for his life. She regretted her decision, but she did not consider any other.

She finished her tea, thanked the cook for it with a meek smile, and set out to go upstairs and begin. The first thing she did was to find a pair of Veronica’s boots which needed resoling to give her an excuse to go out. A breath of fresh air and a walk would be a kind of freedom, and she was longing just to be alone, to move swiftly without being closed in by walls. She had never realized before how little time a maid ever had unwatched or supervised by someone; and even in weather like this she missed the opportunity to be outside, to see the sky other than in tiny pieces blocked off by the frame of a window. The claustrophobia of being available all the time, of having her solitude or her company ordered for her, was increasingly difficult to bear, even though there was a certain pleasure in sharing the evenings, the simple humor, and at times a little fun. But the main purpose was to be able to account for her news when she returned.

Today no one questioned her as she left with the boots under her arm.

At five o’clock Emily was back and in Veronica’s room, laying out clean linen, when Veronica came in. “I’m so sorry about your sister, Amelia,” she said immediately. “You’re very welcome to take Saturday afternoon off to go and visit her; if she should get any worse, please tell me.”

“Yes ma’am,” Emily said solemnly. “Thank you very much. I’m hoping she’ll get better, and there are people with worse troubles. I just took your black boots to the cobbler’s and I heard them say down there that that policeman who came here about the stolen silver and things has been charged with murdering a woman in a magenta pink dress, to do with some investigation he was on—” She stopped, staring at Veronica’s face, which was suddenly bleached of every vestige of color. It was exactly what she had hoped for, and although she was perfectly capable of pity, it did not make the slightest difference to her continuing.

“That must be the same man that upset you so much, ma’am. No wonder! I suppose we should all be grateful he didn’t lose control of himself with you, or heaven knows, you might be like that poor woman. Except of course I can’t imagine you wearing such an unflattering color. From the description it was wicked.”

“Stop it!” Veronica’s voice rose close to a scream. “Stop it! What does it matter what color she wore?” Her face was white as a sheet, her eyes glittering. “You are talking about a human being who’s been murdered! Life just— snatched ...”

Emily’s hands flew to her face. “Oh, ma’am! Oh, ma’am, I’m terribly sorry! I clean forgot about Mr. York! Oh, I am so terribly sorry—please forgive me. I’ll do anything ...” She stopped, as though she were too upset to speak, and simply gazed at Veronica through her spread fingers. Did her dreadful pallor reflect the memory of Robert’s death, or was it a sign of guilt? Surely there was panic in her expression; had Veronica known Cerise, and did she know now who had killed her?

For several seconds they stood staring at each other, Veronica in shocked silence, Emily studying her through wide eyes, affecting abject contrition. At last it was Veronica who spoke. She sat down on the side of the bed and Emily automatically began to undo her boots for her.

“I—I didn’t know anything about it,” Veronica said very quietly. “I don’t see the newspapers, and Papa-in-law didn’t mention it. Did they describe her, this woman”—she swallowed—“in pink?”

“Oh yes, ma’am.” Emily recalled everything she could of the descriptions of Cerise. “She was tall, rather on the thin side, not at all full-figured, especially for a—a woman of pleasure, but she had a very beautiful face.” She looked up from the boots, buttonhook in hand, and saw Veronica’s horrified eyes. Her protruding leg was rigid, and her knuckles on the side of the bed were white.

“And of course she was wearing that peculiar color of very violent magenta pink,” Emily finished. “I think ‘cerise’ is the right name for it.”

Veronica made a little sound as if she were about to cry out, but tension strangled the word in her throat.

“You look terrible shocked, ma’am,” Emily said ruthlessly. “They say she was a woman of the streets, so perhaps she’s no worse off. Quicker than disease.”

“Amelia! You sound as if—”

“Oh no, ma’am!” Emily protested. “Nobody deserves to die like that. I only meant her life was pretty wretched anyway. I know girls who have lost their places, been dismissed without a character, and had to go on the streets like that. They usually die young, either of working twenty hours a day or the pox, or someone kills them.” She kept on watching Veronica’s face and knew she had touched a deep pain, a wound that was still bleeding. She turned the probe. “That policeman said he was questioning her about a crime he was investigating. Perhaps she knew who broke in here and killed poor Mr. York.”

“No.” It was a whisper, little more than a sigh of breath forced between the lips.

Emily waited.

“No.” Veronica seemed to collect her strength. “Policemen must have more than one case at a time. What on earth would a woman like that know of this—of this house?”

“Maybe she knew the thief, ma’am,” Emily suggested. “Perhaps he was her lover.”

For some unfathomable reason Veronica smiled. It was ghastly, like a rictus, but there was the shadow of bitter humor in her eyes. “Perhaps,” she said softly.

Emily knew by some change in the air, a difference in the tensions of the body, that the immediate weakness was past. She would get no more from Veronica now. She finished with the boots, took them off, and stood up.

“Would you like me to draw you a bath before dinner, ma’am, or would you prefer to lie down, perhaps with a hot tisane?”

“I don’t want a bath.” Veronica stood up and went to the window. She spoke with growing decision. “Go and make me a tisane, and fetch a slice of bread and butter from the kitchen. In fact, two slices.”

Emily had a strong idea it was not so much the bread Veronica wanted as an excuse to be rid of her, but she had no choice but to obey.

She fairly ran along the passage and down the stairs, earning a sharp word of reproof from the housekeeper for her unseemly behavior.

“Yes, Mrs. Crawford. Sorry, Mrs. Crawford.” She slowed down to a more dignified walk until she was out of sight through the green baize door, then quickened into a scamper again. She asked Cook’s permission as a matter of policy, then put on a kettle and sliced the bread and butter so rapidly she made a mess of the first piece; it was too thin and fell to bits.

“ ’Ere!” Mary said helpfully. “You got ’ands like a navvy today! Let me do it for yer!” And she cut two wafer-thin slices, buttering each on the loaf first, a trick which Emily had not learned.

“Thank you; bless you!” Emily said with real gratitude, then hopped from one foot to the other waiting for the kettle to boil. But she had learned her lesson and she did not spill it.

“S’right,” Mary said approvingly. “More ’aste, less speed.”

Emily flashed her a smile, picked up the tray, and went back upstairs with it as quickly as her long skirts would allow, unable as she was with her hands full to hold them up. She stopped outside the bedroom door, hearing a murmur of voices, but even standing motionless, her cheek to the panel, she could hear no distinct words. To disturb whoever was within might cut short the very conversation she must overhear!

The dressing room!

She put the tray down and very softly tried the handle of the dressing room door, making sure the latch did not click. She swung it open, picked up the tray, and put it inside on the chest of drawers, closing the door soundlessly. The door to the bedroom was closed, she had done it herself out of habit. Now she needed to open it so fractionally the movement would not catch the eye of anyone in the bedroom, even if they were facing it. Of course, if they saw the handle move it would all be over: she would be caught eavesdropping without a shadow of an excuse.

She bent to the keyhole and put her eye to it, but she could see only the comer of the bed and a small edge of blue skirt over the chair. It was only the dress laid out for the evening. But she could hear the voices much more clearly. The answer was obvious: she must kneel with her ear to the keyhole. Carefully she took a pin out of her hair and put it on the floor as an excuse if she were caught; then she knelt to listen.

“But who was it?” Veronica’s voice was desperate, thick with something very close to panic.

Loretta’s answer came back, reassuringly gentle. “My dear, I cannot even guess! But it has nothing whatever to do with us. How could it?”

“But the dress!” Veronica cried. “That color!” The words seemed to cause her physical pain. “The dress was magenta! “

“Pull yourself together!” Loretta snarled. “You are behaving like a fool!”

For a moment there was silence and Emily wondered if Loretta had slapped her, as one does with hysterics; but there was no gasp, no indrawn breath, no sharp sound of flesh on flesh.

Veronica’s voice shuddered and the next words were forced through sobs. “Who . . . was . . . she?”

“A harlot,” Loretta replied with ice-cold contempt. “Exactly what she seemed to be, I should imagine. Although God knows why that idiot policeman should have broken her neck!”

Veronica’s question was so soft Emily strained to hear it, her shoulders hunched to keep her ear to the lock.

“Did he, Mother-in-law? Was it he?”

Emily did not even notice the cramp in her knees or the aching muscles in her neck. Nothing was further from her mind than the tea getting cold on the chest of drawers. She could hear no sound in the room, not even a rustle of silk.

“Well, I assume so!” Loretta answered after what must have been only seconds, but seemed an age. “Apparently he was found with his hands virtually round her neck, so one would presume so. There seems no other easy explanation.”

“But why?”

“My dear, how should I know? Perhaps he was so obsessed with getting his information he tried to throttle it out of her, and when she couldn’t tell him he lost his temper. It hardly matters to us.”

“But she’s dead!” Veronica’s distress was thick in her voice, even violent.

Loretta was becoming annoyed. “Which is nothing whatsoever to us!” she retorted. “What is one street woman more or less? She had a pink dress—I daresay many women do, especially of that occupation.” Then she spoke more urgently and with a peculiar rasping tone. “Get ahold of yourself, Veronica! You have much to gain, and everything to lose—everything! Remember that. Robert is dead. Let the past stay in the grave where it belongs, and make yourself a decent future with Julian Danver. I’ve done everything I can to help you, God knows, but if you give way to fits of the vapors and maudlin thoughts every time there is a tragedy somewhere, then even I cannot carry you through. Do you understand me?”

There was silence. Emily strained till she could hear her own heart thumping, but there was not even a movement beyond the keyhole.

“Do you understand me?” Loretta’s voice was low and grating, without patience, devoid of pity. Had Emily not heard the words quite plainly, it would have sounded like a threat. Loretta had comforted and supported Veronica for a long time now, and her strength, let alone her patience, seemed to be wearing thin. She too had suffered a loss; Veronica was on the brink of finding another husband, but Loretta would not find another son. Little wonder she thought it was time Veronica behaved less self-indulgently.

“Yes.” Veronica’s voice sounded defiant, yet there was no conviction in it. “Yes, I understand.” And she began to weep.

“Good.” Loretta was satisfied. There was a crackle of taffeta as she sat back. Apparently she was not interested in Veronica’s tears. Perhaps she had seen too many of them.

There was a brisk knock on the door and Emily shot halfway to her feet, tripped on her skirt and fell flat. This time her hair really did come undone; the pin she had removed must have been vital. Frantically she hitched up her skirts and stood up properly; then she let them fall and smoothed her apron to make sure she was decent. She grabbed for the tray, then realized the knock had been on the outer door to the bedroom, not on the dressing room door.

The relief was overwhelming, so physically sharp her legs were shaking. She had time to put the tray down again, pin her hair rather better, take the tray and go out onto the landing and knock at the bedroom door herself.

When she went in Veronica was sitting on the big bed looking exhausted, bright smudges of color in her cheeks; Loretta was perfectly composed, at least on the surface. Piers York stood there looking slightly puzzled, a frown of incomprehension on his usually benign face. It might have been the angle of the light, but for the first time Emily also saw the deep sadness, in an expression in his eyes that stripped quite naked a patience and a disillusionment. Then he spoke and it vanished.

“What have you got?” He regarded Emily curiously. “Tea and bread and butter? Put it on the dressing table.”

“Yes, sir,” Emily moved to obey, putting aside the silver-backed brushes and hand mirror. She did not offer to pour; if they left it awhile they might attribute the tea’s coldness to their own delay.

“Amelia!” Loretta said sharply.

“Yes, ma’am?” Emily tried to look demure as an insecure pin slid out of her hair and fell on the dressing table with a tinkle, and a coil of hair unwound down her cheek.

“For heaven’s sake, girl!” Loretta’s rage exploded. “You look like a—a dollymop!”

Emily knew what a dollymop was: the cheapest of prostitutes, who could be tossed down anywhere for a few pence. The hot blood in her cheeks betrayed her, but she could not give the insolentiy innocent answer that leapt to her tongue. Nor could she afford to retaliate on equal terms, or she would lose her job—and Pitt’s life might depend on it. Choking with the injustice, she lowered her eyes so Loretta could not see the hatred in them. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” she whispered, forcing the words between her clenched teeth. “I stood out of the way and brushed against the curtain. I must have pulled out one of my pins.”

“Indeed.” Loretta made no attempt to hide her total skepticism. “It doesn’t say much for your ability to dress hair! Well, when I write your references I shall say nothing about the matter, although your manner has not always been what I would wish. But your mentioning this vulgar crime in Seven Dials to Miss Veronica is inexcusable. We do not have servants in this house who know about such things, let alone discuss them. Next thing you know we shall have all the maids in hysterics and the whole household at a standstill. I am sorry you have proved unsuitable, but no doubt you will find another position. You may work out the week, till we find someone to replace you. Edith cannot possibly do the work of two, and I need her for other things. Now you may get on about your business. Leave the tray there.”

Veronica shot up like a jack-in-the-box. “She is my maid!” she said rather loudly, staring at Loretta. “And I am perfectly satisfied with her—in fact I like her! And I shall keep her—forever, if I choose! And she heard about the murder doing an errand for me; she told me because she knew I was upset when that policeman called here before. Now he won’t be back, and I for one am delighted.”

Piers shook his head. “Pity,” he said with regret. “Can’t imagine what can have made him do it. Seemed such a civilized chap to me. Must be some explanation, I suppose.”

“Rubbish!” Loretta said swiftly. “Really Piers, sometimes I wonder how on earth you succeed as well as you do. Your judgment of people is—infantile!”

The change in his face was so subtle it was not a movement of any one feature, but Emily knew instantly that Loretta had trespassed too far, although she herself did not seem to realize it.

“I think the word you were looking for was ‘charitable,’ ” he said very quietly.

“Do you also take a ‘charitable’ view of the maid coming in here looking as if she’d just got out of bed?” Loretta demanded with icy disgust.

Piers turned and regarded Emily curiously. There was the faintest glint of humor in his eyes. “Have you been scuffling with one of the menservants, Amelia?”

She looked back at him perfectly steadily.

“No, sir, I have not; not now, nor at any time.”

“Thank you,” he said gravely. “The matter is settled. I think it is time we all changed for dinner.” He put his hands in his pockets and walked casually to the door.

“I am keeping my maid.” VERONICA stared at Loretta. “If she goes, it will be because I don’t want her, not because you don’t!”

“Drink your tea,” Loretta replied without expression, but Emily knew from her face, the calm power IN THE SET OF HER MOUTH, THAT HER DEFEAT WAS ONLY TEMPORARY. TIME WAS SHORT.

But then time was short for Pitt anyway.

Loretta went out and closed THE DOOR WITH A FIRM CLICK. VERONICA IGNORED THE TEA AND ATE THE BREAD AND BUTTER. “I’VE CHANGED MY MIND,” SHE SAID, STARING INTO THE MIRROR. “I’LL WEAR THE CRIMSON DRESS.”

The following days passed grimly. Emily tried hard to be the perfect lady’s maid so that not even Edith could find fault with her. She ironed many articles three and four times, redampening them and smoothing them again and again with the flatiron till they were flawless. Her back and arms ached, but she would not be beaten by a crease in a piece of cotton. There was no time to sit down and swap gossip, as she would have liked to, since there was also the possibility that someone else on the staff might have known something.

There was always the chance that Veronica’s resolve would weaken or her courage fail, and Emily would find herself given notice again. She bit back any smart replies, forcing herself to act meekly, to walk with her head less high and without the slight whisk of skirts that was natural to her.

On the other hand she went out of her way to flatter Mrs. Melrose, the cook, who became a first-class ally, since she disliked Mrs. Crawford already. Emily worked on the principle “My enemy’s enemy is my friend.” She did rather well with the butler also. Normally it was a tactic she would have despised, but she must survive here if she were to be any use to Charlotte or Thomas, and there was no time for fine moral niceties.

The tweeny and the scullery maid were the lowest forms of life in the household, but the tweeny in particular was an observant child and not unintelligent, and Emily was able, through a little kindness, to draw quite a lot of information from her. Of course, the girl knew nothing about Robert York, and very little about the family at all; but she had very definite opinions about the rest of the servants. There was no room to be subtle.

On Saturday Emily took her afternoon off and met Charlotte in the park in a fine, driving rain. It was bitterly cold and they huddled together, pulling collars higher and burying their hands in muffs, but at least it was highly unlikely that they would be observed. Who but the illicit or those bound in the utmost haste from one place to another would be out on such a day? Even the homeless chose the comparative shelter of the streets rather than the open wastes of the park, where the wind could sheer unchecked across the flat gray-green winter grass; and forbidden lovers had no eyes for anyone but each other.

They exchanged news, which gave them both some new insights, but no conclusions beyond what they already knew: the murderer was in Hanover Close, and either Veronica or Loretta knew, if not who it was, then at least why the crime had been committed. But how to break their silence was still a mystery.

Charlotte was frightened. She hovered on the edge of begging Emily to leave the York house. Three times she started to, and then the almost paralyzing fear for Pitt drowned out everything else and her words died in her throat. Not that it would have made any difference; Emily had no intention of retiring from the fight and sitting by while they tried Pitt and hanged him.

Which did not mean Emily was not also frightened. After hugging Charlotte good-bye, she sniffed back the tears and turned from the park gates to run along the wet pavements in the rain, past the carriages in the streets, along the wrought iron railings and down the area steps into the kitchen. She was so cold she was shaking inside. She piled her sodden coat and boots into the laundry room to dry, ate a silent supper at the kitchen table, and went up to her room. She lay in bed still shivering and thought how she might trap the man or woman who had murdered three times already and had hidden the crimes so well that the only person suspected was Pitt.

She woke in the dark with a scream in her throat and her body clenched with terror as a footfall made the merest tap in the bare passage outside her door. Soundlessly she slid out of bed, the cold air on her skin cutting through her thin nightgown like a blow. By the dim light of the badly curtained window, she grasped the one wooden chair and wedged it under the door handle. Then she scrambled back into bed again, pulled her knees up to her stomach, and tried to get warm enough to go back to sleep, so that she would not be useless in the morning, either to work or to match wits with a murderer, trap them, and survive to show the proof.

She got up in the chilly gray dawn in time to remove the chair, so that when Fanny, the tweeny, called to waken her she knew nothing of it. The day was full of tedious, time-consuming chores and Emily learned nothing that seemed to be of value.

This was pointless! It could go on for months! She must force the issue.

Late in the evening she crept into the pantry, pocketed half a dozen biscuits dipped in chocolate, and made two cups of cocoa. She carried them upstairs, where she knocked on the tweeny’s door and, when it was opened, whispered her invitation.

Five minutes later they were curled up, feet under them, on Emily’s bed, sharing the biscuits and sipping hot cocoa. Emily began to gossip.

It took ten minutes before she could bring up the subject of Dulcie’s death.

“Whatever was she doing leaning out of the window?” she said, eating the last biscuit. “Do you suppose she was calling to someone?”

“Nah!” Fanny said scornfully. “If’n there’d bin anybody there, they’d ’a said, wouldn’t they? I mean, nobody saw ’er fall! Anyway, she weren’t like that.”

“What do you mean?” Emily affected innocence.

“Well ...” Fanny hunched her shoulders in a shrug. “She weren’t a flirt. She were sort o’—proper. Quiet like.”

“And nobody saw her at all?” Emily said incredulously.

“It were dark! She fell out some time in the evening. We was all inside.”

Emily gazed at her. “How do you know? Do you know where everyone was?”

Fanny screwed up her face. “Well, we would be, wouldn’t we? Where else would anyone be on a wet night in the middle o’ winter?”

“Oh.” Emily sat back against the thin pillow. “I thought maybe you actually knew where everyone was: at supper in the kitchen, or in the servants hall.”

“No one knows when she fell out,” Fanny explained patiently. “Any’ow, she were there at supper wiv us ’erself.”

“You mean—” Emily opened her eyes wider. “You mean she fell during the night? What was the last time anyone saw her?”

“Edith said good night to ’er ’baht ’alf nine,” Fanny replied, thinking hard. “Me an’ Prim was playin’ cards. Dulcie weren’t feelin’ that special, so it must ’a bin after that, mustn’t it?”

“But that doesn’t make sense!” Emily persisted. “Why should she be leaning out of a window during the night? You don’t think—” She took a deep bream and waited. “You don’t think she had someone climbing in?”

“Oh no!” Fanny’s shock was genuine and profound. “Not Dulcie! You mean a—a follower? Never! Not ’er, she weren’t...” Her little face set in practical lines. “Any’ow, if’n yer was going to ’ave a follower in the ’ouse, yer wouldn’t ’ave the poor soul climb up no drainpipe to an attic winder; yer’d creep down an’ let ’im in the scullery door, wouldn’t yer? She weren’t daft! But she weren’t loose neither.” She finished the last of the cocoa and looked at Emily over the rim of her cup, then automatically pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Know what I reckon, Amelia?”

Emily was agog, leaning forward to urge her on. “What?”

Fanny’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “I reckon as she saw summink the night Mr. Robert were murdered, and someone came back an’ murdered ’er, in case she told that rozzer as was ’ere askin’!”

Emily breathed out in a careful sigh of amazement. “Oh Fanny! You could be right! You think there was a break-in?”

Fanny shook her head vigorously. “No, there weren’t—we’d ’a known. Mr. Redditch is most partic’lar, ’specially after there were that terrible robbery when Mr. Robert were murdered. All the doors and winders is looked ter special every night afore ’e goes ter bed ’isself. ’Im or Albert goes over every one.”

“Well, could anyone have got in before that?” Emily asked eagerly.

“Nah!” Fanny smiled at her innocence. “ ’Ow? There’s only the front door, an’ yer can’t come in that ’less someone opens it for yer; and the back door’d mean ’e ’ad ter come through the kitchen, and there’s always people there, Cook or Mary at least, an’ on a night wiv guests, near all of us.”

“Who were the guests that night? Do you know?”

“The two Danver gentlemen and the ladies, Miss ’arriet and the old Miss Danver, an’ Mr. and Mrs. Asherson. ’E’s ever so ’andsome, Mr. Asherson, in a sort o’ broodin’ way. I know Nora’s always on about ’im. I reckon as she’s got a fancy for ’im rotten!” She sniffed, unconsciously imitating the housekeeper’s tone. “Silly little article! What’d she get out of it, ’ceptin’ misery?”

“Then it must have been someone already in the house,” Emily whispered back, entirely forgetting her accent, but Fanny appeared not to notice. “Or someone in the house let in another person?”

“Like ’oo?” Fanny was indignant. “In’t none of us servants ’d do that! Anyway, we weren’t none of us ’ere when Mr. Robert were killed, ’ceptin’ Mary an’ Dulcie ’erself. An’ Mary’s in the kitchen and nobody came through that way or we’d all ’a seen ’em. Come ter that, Albert was on in the ’all.”

“So it was someone here,” Emily agreed. “The only other possibility is that Dulcie crept down during the night and let someone in herself—or Mary did, I suppose.” She added that only in the interests of strict logic; she did not believe for a moment that either girl had done such a thing. She had the information she wanted: it had happened after dinner and could have been before the guests left, but there had definitely been no break-in. “Fanny, I think you’re right!” She leaned forward, gripping Fanny’s thin arm. “You’d better say nothing to anyone at all—in case you fall out of a window as well! Promise me.”

Fanny shook her head, eyes grave. “I won’t! Oh, believe the, I won’t. I don’t want ter end up squashed on the pavement like ’er, poor thing. An’ you better keep a still tongue too.”

“I swear!” Emily said with conviction. “And I’ll put a chair against my door.”

“You better ’ad,” Fanny agreed. “Me too!” She uncurled her legs and slid to the floor, hugging her nightgown round her, shivering now the cocoa was finished. “G’night, ’melia.”

But even with the chair wedged under the handle Emily did not sleep easily. Several times she woke with a start, uncertain if she had heard footsteps in the passage outside, and whether they had stopped outside her door. Could someone have tried the handle? The wind rattled the loose sash frame, and she froze in terror, waiting till the sound came again and she could be certain what it was. Suspicions churned in her mind, slipping in and out of dreams.

With daylight courage returned, but she was still nervous; it took all her concentration not to make any mistakes. As she went from one pedestrian duty to the next, she was always aware of other people, of movement, shadows. By evening she was so tired she could have wept with exhaustion. She felt imprisoned in the house, hurried from one place to another with never any time to be alone, yet carrying her loneliness like a weight inside. And always time was the enemy. In a way it was a blessing to have work to occupy her.

Charlotte could only imagine what might be happening to Emily after they parted in the rain at the park gates. It was useless to think about it; she could do nothing. And she must keep lying to Pitt or he would know she was working to find the truth—and then he was certain to realize that she was doing so because Ballarat was doing nothing—no one would do anything. The loneliness of having to lie to him was one of the worse pains she had ever known. The luxury of hiding nothing, carrying no knowledge alone, was something she was so used to she had forgotten its value. Now it would only be selfishness, and she did not even consider it. Nevertheless, the hurt caught her by surprise.

But there were small kindnesses, friendships where she had not thought to find them. A strange little man in a coster’s coat and cap brought her a bag of herrings and refused to be paid, hurrying away into the rain without looking back, as though embarrassed to be thanked. One morning she found a bundle of kindling sticks on the back step, and two days later there was another bundle. She never saw who left them. The greengrocer became curt to the point of outright rudeness, but the coal merchant continued to deliver, and she thought his sacks were if anything a little fuller.

Caroline did not come back, but she wrote every day saying that Daniel and Jemima were well and offering to do anything she could to help.

The letter that touched her most came from Great-aunt Vespasia, who was ill with bronchitis and confined to her bed. She had no doubt whatsoever that Pitt was innocent, and as soon as the time was appropriate, if it should come to such a ridiculous pass, she would instruct her lawyer to act on his behalf. She also enclosed ten guineas, for which she hoped Charlotte would not be silly enough to take offense. One could not fight on an empty stomach—and quite obviously a fight was on hand.

The writing was shaky and a little crooked on the page, and Charlotte was struck with cold shock as she realized that Aunt Vespasia was old and frailty was catching up with her.

She stood in the kitchen in the early morning holding the blue deckled paper in her hand. It seemed as if all the good and certain things in the world were fading fast; there was a chill so close to the skin no fires could dispel it.

She went to visit Pitt again, waiting in the shivering rain with other quiet, sad-faced women whose fathers, husbands, or sons rotted away in the Steel. Some were violent, some greedy, brutal by nature of circumstance, many merely inadequate to cope with life in the struggling, overcrowded streets where only the strongest endure.

Charlotte had time for pity, time to wonder and think about these other women—it was easier to ache for another’s pain than work through the realities of her own. That made it easier to face Pitt and lie, smiling as if she had confidence and smothering her fear if she occupied the storm of emotion inside herself with something else.

When at last she was permitted in she was not allowed to touch him, only to sit across the table and stare into his face, seeing the dirt and the bruises, the hollows round his eyes where shock could not be hidden by his forced smile. Never in her life had she had to live so difficult or so complete a lie. He knew her so well, she had never succeeded in deceiving him before. Now she met his eyes and lied as easily as if he had been a child instead of a man, someone to be protected and comforted with stories while she bore the truth.

“Yes, we are all perfectly well,” she said quickly. “Although of course we miss you terribly! But we have enough of everything, so I haven’t had to ask Mama or Emily for any help, although I’m sure they’ll give it if it should be necessary. No, I haven’t been back to the Yorks’. I’m leaving it to Mr. Ballarat, as you said. . . . Well, if he hasn’t sent anyone to see you yet it must be because he doesn’t need to.” She kept mastery of the conversation, permitting no time for interruptions, questions she could not answer.

“Where’s Emily? At home. They wouldn’t let her in here, she isn’t family—at least, not close enough. Sisters-in-law don’t count. Yes, Jack Radley is being very helpful. . . .”

Emily was in the laundry room doing the job she disliked most intensely: ironing the starched frills of cotton aprons, half a dozen of them. Somehow Edith had taken advantage of some absence of mind to maneuver Emily into doing her share as well. She looked up in surprise when Mary came to the door, glanced all round her, then slipped in and closed it, fingers to her lips.

“What is it?” Emily whispered.

“A man!” Mary said urgently, her voice so low her words were almost swallowed. “You got a follower!”

“I haven’t!” Emily denied fiercely. She certainly did not need that kind of trouble. And it was totally unjust; she had encouraged no one. In fact, she had given the butcher’s boy a flea in his ear when he had smiled at her, impudent creature.

“Yes you ’ave!” Mary insisted. “Scruffy, ’e is, an’ looks like ’e just bin up a chimney! But spoke awful nice an’ polite, an’ if’n ’e were washed ’e could be real nice, I reckon.”

“Well, I don’t know him!” Emily said fiercely. “Tell him to go away!”

“Won’t you even come and see—”

“No! Do you want me to lose my character?”

“ ’E’s awful keen.”

“I’ll be thrown out!” Emily exploded.

“But ’e says ’e knows you!” Mary tried once more. “C’mon, Amelia; ’e could be—Well, d’you want to stay a lady’s maid all your life?”

“It’s a lot better than being out on the street without a character!” Emily hissed back.

“Well, if you’re really sure. ’Is name is Jack suffink.”

Emily froze. “What?”

“ ’Is name is Jack suffink,” Mary repeated.

Emily dropped the iron. “I’ll come! Where is he? Has anyone else seen him?”

“You changed yer mind pretty quick!” Mary said with profound satisfaction. “But yer’d better be sharp! If Cook catches yer, yer’ll be in dead trouble. ’E’s at the scullery door. On wiv yer! ’Urry!”

Emily ran from the laundry room along the corridor, through the kitchen and scullery to the back door, with Mary close behind her, keeping watch for cook’s return.

Emily could hardly believe what she saw. The man standing in the rain on the back steps beside the coke scuttles and rubbish cans was dressed in a dark, ragged coat that came past his knees, and his face was all but hidden by a broad-brimmed hat and a lock of sooty hair that fell over his brow. His skin seemed grimy, as if he had indeed come down a chimney.

“Jack?” Emily said incredulously.

He grinned, showing startlingly white teeth in his filthy face. She was so glad to see him she wanted to laugh, but realized immediately her laughter would turn to tears. It all rushed through her in a torrent so fierce she said nothing at all.

“Are you all right?” he demanded. “You look dreadful!”

Then she did start to laugh, a little hysterically, but stopped herself when she realized Mary could hear her. She controlled her voice with an effort. “Yes, I’m fine. I put a chair under my door at night. But I need to talk to you. How is Charlotte?”

“It’s very hard on her, and we’re not getting anywhere.”

There was a shout inside the scullery and Emily knew someone was back who would betray her, if not Cook then Nora.

“Go!” she said quickly. “I’ll go to the cobbler’s in half an hour or so—wait for the round the corner. Please!”

He nodded, and by the time Nora’s curious face came round the outer door he had slipped up the area steps and disappeared.

“What are you doing out ’ere?” Nora said sharply. “I thought I ’eard you talking to someone!”

“Well, you know what ‘thought’ did!” Emily snapped back, then regretted it; not that she had any compunction about Nora, it was just unwise to antagonize her. But it was too late to retreat now, or it would only make her suspicious. “For that matter, what are you doing out here?”

“Er ...” Nora had obviously come to catch Emily out, and now she was confused. She lifted her chin a little higher. “I thought if there was someone ’ere ’e might be bothering you! I came to ’elp!”

“How kind of you,” Emily replied sarcastically. “As you see, there is no one. I came to see how cold it is. I’m going on an errand; I shall need a greatcoat.”

“Of course you will!” Nora said waspishly. “What else do you expect in January?”

“Rain,” Emily replied with growing confidence.

“It is raining! Couldn’t you see that through the window?”

“Not much. I was in the laundry.” She stared at Nora’s handsome bold eyes, daring her to make an open accusation.

“Very well then.” Nora shrugged elaborately; she had elegant shoulders and she knew it. “Then you’d better be on your way, and don’t take ’alf the afternoon about it!”

Emily went back to the laundry room to finish the last apron. She folded it and put away the flatiron, then collected her hat and coat, and after telling Mary where she was going, she set out up the area steps and along Hanover Close towards the main thoroughfare, waiting with every footstep to see Jack, or hear him behind her.

She nearly bumped into him round the first corner. He still looked a sight, and he did not touch her but walked respectfully beside her as if they were both exactly what they appeared: a lady’s maid on an errand and a sweep’s man taking a short time off.

As they walked she told him about the extraordinary conversation she had overheard between Veronica and Loretta, and the only conclusion possible from her discussion with the tweeny.

He in turn told her what little news he had of Charlotte.

By the time that was completed she had Veronica’s boots and was on the way back to Hanover Close. It was raining harder, her feet and her skirts were wet, and the soot was beginning to run in black trickles down his face.

“You look fearful!” she said with a rather painful smile. She was walking less and less quickly. She was dreading going back into the house, not only because this was a moment’s freedom from duty and fear, but, surprisingly sharply, because she would miss Jack. “Your own mother wouldn’t know you!” she added.

He started to laugh, at first very quietly, then more heartily as he gazed at her straight, mud brown coat, her plain hat and sodden boots.

She began to giggle as well, and they stood in the street together streaming wet, laughing on the edge of tears. He put out both his hands and took hers, holding her gently.

For an instant she thought it was on the edge of his tongue to ask her to marry him, but whatever words he had were quickly swallowed back. She had all the Ashworth money, the houses, the position; he had nothing. Love was not enough to offer.

“Jack,” she said without giving herself time to weigh or judge. “Jack—would you consider marrying the?”

The rain was washing the soot off his face in black drops.

“Yes please, Emily. I would like to marry you—very much.”

“Then you may kiss me,” she said with a shy smile.

Slowly, carefully, and very gently he did; and standing there, filthy and cold in the rain, it was exquisitely sweet.