Silence in Hanover Close

2

AT FIRST CHARLOTTE accepted Pitt’s brief dismissal of his new case, because she was preoccupied with Christmas and all the arrangements. There was so much that had to be done in the kitchen: the hiding of carefully wrapped threepenny pieces in the plum pudding, the making of sweets, jam for tarts and chopped fruits for mince pies. And there were presents to finish and wrap in colored paper. On top of that, everything must be kept secret, to be a surprise on the day.

At any other time she would have been more inquisitive, and considerably more persistent. In the past Charlotte had involved herself in some of Thomas’s most complex and personally tragic cases, drawn in by deliberate curiosity or outrage at some event. It was only last summer that her sister Emily’s husband had been murdered, and that case had seemed endless. Emily herself had been the main suspect. George had had a short-lived but intense affair with Sybilla March, and Emily was the only one who knew it had ended the night before he died. Who could be expected to believe her when all the evidence was to the contrary? And Emily, in her efforts to win back George’s attention, had been so indiscreet with Jack Radley that she had deliberately given everyone the impression that she herself was romantically involved.

Charlotte had never been so afraid as during that period, nor felt true tragedy as close. When their elder sister Sarah had died it had been a loss, sudden and stark, but imposed from outside, a chance event that might have stricken anyone. George’s death was different. It had seemed a failure from within; all their assumptions about safety and love had been shattered in a simple, reverberating act, touching everything and marring it all with doubt. What lack in Emily, what emptiness in the trust she had thought so deep, had turned George to another woman with such passion? Their reconciliation after had been so brief, so delicate and so private it had not had time to blossom, and no one else had known of it. And the next morning George was dead.

There had been no pity, no attention of concerned friends as when Sarah died. Rather there had been suspicion, even hate, all sorts of old enmities and mistakes raked up and added to in the fear that blame would run over and scald everyone, leaving other people’s secrets and weaknesses exposed—as indeed they had been.

It was six months ago now, and Emily had recovered from the shock. The social acceptance had returned; indeed, people fell over themselves to make up for their guilt at having been suspicious and their social cowardice at the time. But for all that, Society still required that widows be seen to mourn, especially those of men from old and titled families such as the Ashworths. The fact that Emily was not yet thirty would not in any way excuse her from remaining at home, receiving only relatives, and wearing unrelieved black. She must not attend any social functions that might appear frivolous or enjoyable, and she must maintain an attitude of gravity at all times.

She was finding it almost unendurable. To begin with, as soon as George’s murderer was found and the matter closed, she had gone into the country with Edward, to be alone and spend her time helping him to understand the death of his father and his own new position. With the autumn she had returned to the city, but all the usual parties, operas, balls, and soirées were closed to her. The friends who did call on her were sober to the point of stultification, and no one gossiped or discussed fashion or the latest play, or who was flirting with whom, considering those topics too trivial to disturb her grief. The time Emily spent sitting at home writing letters, playing the piano, or stitching endless needlework felt like a constant scraping of the skin, the source of a raging discontent.

Naturally Charlotte had invited Emily to come for Christmas with Edward, who would find the company of other children the best present of all.

But what about after Christmas? Emily would have to return to the Ashworth town house, alone and bored to tears!

And to tell the truth, as deeply as she loved her home and her children, six months of uninterrupted domesticity was beginning to hang a little heavily on Charlotte also. She had asked Pitt about his new case with more than wifely concern—there was as well a desire for adventure in the question.

The following evening, Charlotte prepared her ground a little more carefully. She waited until after dinner, when they were sitting in front of the parlor fire; the children were long in bed, and she was carefully stitching butterfly ornaments to put on the Christmas tree.

“Thomas,” she began casually. “If the case is really nothing of importance—just a formality, as you said—do you think you will be able to leave it over Christmas?” She did not look up, keeping her eyes on her thread and the delicate gossamer she was sewing.

“I . . .” He hesitated. “I think there may be more to it than I supposed.”

Charlotte kept her curiosity subdued with great difficulty. “Oh dear. How is that?”

“A burglary that is hard to understand.”

“Oh.” This time she did not need to pretend indifference. Burglaries were impersonal, the loss of possessions held no interest for her. “What was stolen?”

“Two miniatures, a vase, a paperweight, and a first-edition book,” he replied.

“What is difficult to understand about that?” Then she looked up and found him smiling. “Thomas?” Instantly she knew there was more, an element of mystery or concealed emotion.

“The son of the house disturbed the burglar and was killed.” His eyes were steady on hers, speculative. He was amused by her curiosity and her attempts to disguise it, yet he respected her perceptiveness. “And none of the stolen articles ever turned up,” he finished.

“Yes?” Without realizing it she had let her sewing fall. “Thomas!”

He slid down into his chair, crossing his legs comfortably, and told her what he knew, adding Ballarat’s warning about discretion and the reputations that could be ruined, and the information that the Foreign Office had mislaid.

“Mislaid?” she repeated the word skeptically. “Do you mean stolen?”

“I don’t know. I don’t suppose I ever will. If information was taken it would have been copied, not removed. If Robert York had papers in his house, that might have been what the burglar was after, and he merely took the other things to cover up the fact. More likely it had nothing to do with it.”

She took up her sewing again, setting it on the side table so she should not lose the needle. “But what in goodness’ name does the Foreign Office expect of you?” she pressed. “If there is a spy, isn’t it desperately important he should be caught, quite apart from his having murdered poor Robert York?”

“I daresay he has been,” he said ruefully. “And the Foreign Office wishes to keep quiet about it. What they really want is for us to test their skill, make sure the mislaid information is hidden beyond recall. It will do our reputation in the world little good to make such things public. Or perhaps there never was anything missing.”

“Do you believe that?” she challenged.

“No. But it may have been carelessness more than deceit.”

“What are you going to do about Robert York’s murder? Someone killed him.”

“Follow the burglary as far as I can,” he said with a slight shrug.

“What is the widow like?” Charlotte was not willing to let it go yet. There must be something interesting that she could relay to Emily.

“I don’t know. I have had no excuse yet to call on her without making her suspicious, and that is the last thing the Foreign Office wishes. It would immediately raise all sorts of ugly questions. You haven’t mentioned Jack Radley lately. Is Emily still keeping his acquaintance?”

That was a matter much closer to Charlotte’s heart, and she was prepared to abandon the unpromising mystery for it. Jack Radley had begun as a diversion, someone Emily had flirted with to prove to George that she could be every bit as charming, as poised, as witty as her rival. As the events of the case progressed he had become a prime suspect. But Jack had turned out to be a generous friend, far less superficial and self-seeking than his reputation had led Emily to believe. He had no money and fewer prospects. The obvious thought, unkind as it might be, was that he pursued Emily for the wealth she had inherited on George’s death. His success with women was well known; his vanity might have led him to murder George, then court Emily and marry her.

He had proved to be quite innocent of any crime, but he was still far from the suitor Society would have wished for Emily when the time was right. Certainly their mother would be appalled!

None of that bothered Charlotte greatly: whatever people thought, it could not possibly be worse than what they had thought of Charlotte herself for marrying a policeman! Jack Radley was impecunious, but he was very definitely a gentleman; policemen barely ranked above bailiffs and ratcatchers. But was Jack Radley capable of love? To imagine that everyone was, if only given the right companion, was a romantic mistake that was very easily made. But it was still a mistake. Many people desire no more than a convention— the sharing of a home, a social position, children, and the wider family; they do not wish to share their thoughts or their leisure, above all they do not wish to reveal their inner selves, where dreams are held, where they may be known, and thus wounded. They will not take risks. In the end there is no generosity of soul, only safety. There is no giving where there may be cost. Regardless of his charm or his wit, his warm and friendly manner, if Jack Radley was one of these, in the end he would bring Emily only pain. And Charlotte would do everything in her power to prevent that.

“Charlotte?” Pitt interrupted her thoughts, a little sharply. The answer mattered to him also. He was very fond of Emily, too, and he understood how it would hurt her if Charlotte’s unspoken fear were justified.

“I think so,” she said quickly. “We haven’t spoken of him much lately, we have been so busy discussing Christmas. She is bringing a goose, and mince puddings.”

He sank a little lower in the chair and stretched his feet towards the fire. “I think if you want to play detective”—he looked up at her through his lashes—“you would do more good exercising your judgment on Jack Radley than speculating about Mrs. York.”

She gave him no argument. What he said was undoubtedly true, and although he phrased it gently, it was something in the nature of a command. Beneath his comfortable sprawl and his light manner, Pitt was worried.

However, Charlotte had every intention of combining the two. She could think of no more effective way of seeing enough of Emily to be able to exercise her judgment, as Thomas had said, than to encourage her to play detective in another case. At Christmas, any discussion or judgment would be next to impossible, but later, if Charlotte were to visit Emily at her home, where she might meet Jack Radley herself, she might be in a position to form a more valid opinion of him without being obvious about it.

She was ready, her plan prepared, when Emily called the following morning, a little after eleven. She came straight into the kitchen in a whirl of black barathea trimmed with black fox fur up to her chin, her fair hair coiled under a sweeping black hat. For a moment Charlotte was envious; the expensive coat looked so indescribably elegant. Then she remembered the reason her sister wore black and was instantly ashamed. Emily looked pale, apart from the spots of color stung into her cheeks by the ice on the wind, and there were gray smudges under her eyes where the skin looked bruised and papery. Charlotte did not need to be told her sister was restless and sleeping too little. Boredom is not by any means the worst of afflictions, but it carries its own kind of debilitation. Christmas would be all too brief, and what would Emily do after that?

“Have a cup of tea,” Charlotte offered, turning to the big kitchen range without waiting for an answer. “Have you ever been to Hanover Close?”

Emily took off her coat and sat at the kitchen table, resting her elbows on its scrubbed wood. Her dress beneath the coat was equally elegant, although there were places where she did not fill it out as she used to.

“No, but I know where it is. Why?” The answering inquiry was merely polite.

Charlotte plunged in at the deepest point. “There has been a murder there.”

“In Hanover Close?” This time she had Emily’s full attention. “Good heavens. That’s terribly exclusive. The best possible taste—and money. Who is dead?”

“Robert York. He used to work at the Foreign Office— until he died, I mean.”

“How was he killed? I didn’t read of it.” Normally a lady of Emily’s position would not have read a newspaper at all, apart from perhaps the society pages and the Court Circular. But unlike their papa, George had been very lenient where such things were concerned—as long as she did not offend people by discussing them. And, of course, since his death she did as she pleased.

Charlotte poured the water from the kettle into the teapot, then placed it on the table with a cream jug and two of her best cups. “It happened three years ago,” she said as carelessly as she could. “Thomas has just been asked to reopen the case, because the widow is to marry again, to someone else in the Foreign Office.”

Emily perked up. “Is she betrothed yet? I haven’t seen news of that either, and I always read the society pages. That is about the only way I get to hear anything. No one tells me anything anymore; it’s as if the whole subject of relationships between men and women were something I should not be reminded of.” Unconsciously her fist clenched.

Charlotte noticed it. “That is the point!” she said quickly. “Thomas has been asked to investigate, to see if she is a suitable person to marry someone as important as Mr. Danver will become, when he is promoted.”

“Might she not be?” Emily asked. “Please do pour the tea, I’m as dry as the Sahara, and it’s had plenty of time to brew. Has she a reputation? I wish I could hear more. I’m so cut off it’s as if I were a leper! Half the people I used to know are embarrassed to see me, and the other half spend their time sitting around solemnly and talking in whispers, as if I were dying myself.” She sniffed fiercely, searching in her reticule for a handkerchief. It was not self-pity so much as the sudden warmth of the kitchen after the cold air in the carriage which provoked the necessity.

Charlotte shook her head. “No, that’s as much as I have learned, but the crime itself is very unexplained.” She poured the tea and pushed Emily’s cup across towards her, along with a piece of fresh ginger cake, which was taken readily. “It is rather odd.” And she told Emily all that Pitt had told her.

“Very odd,” Emily agreed at last. “I wonder if she had a lover, and there was a quarrel. I suppose that is really what the Foreign Office wants Thomas to discover, but they are afraid to say so, in case it should get back to Mr. Danver, who would be furious. And of course, it would prejudice him terribly; he would never have any peace of mind at such a slur.”

“Neither would she!” Charlotte said hotly. “If it is untrue, it could be the most appalling injustice. But I don’t know how Thomas will be able to make any inquiries. It is hardly the thing a policeman can ask of her social acquaintances.”

Emily smiled. “My dear Charlotte, you don’t need to labor the point so hard. You are being singularly unsubtle, even for you! Of course we will find out. We have done nothing but bake cakes and stitch seams for six months, and I am ready to scream with it. We shall prove Veronica York’s impeccable reputation, or ruin it entirely. Where shall we begin?”

Charlotte had already anticipated the difficulties. Emily could no longer move in Society as she had when George was alive; and Charlotte, as the wife of a policeman, had not the money to dress appropriately, nor the friends upon whom to call. There was only George’s great-aunt Vespasia, who would understand and assist, but she was over eighty, and since George’s death had taken a less active part in affairs than before. She was devoted to a number of causes, and believed that the battle against poverty and injustice could be tackled through reform of the law. She was currently engaged in a struggle to improve the working conditions in factories which employed children, especially those under the age of ten.

Charlotte poured more tea into her cup and sipped it. “Are you still in acquaintance with Jack Radley?” She asked, trying to sound casual, as if the question were entirely to do with the problem of Veronica York.

Emily reached for the ginger cake again. “He calls upon me from time to time. Do you think he might involve himself?” She cut a large slice of the cake and bit into it hungrily.

“Perhaps he might help us to—to arrange a meeting,” Charlotte suggested.

“Not us.” Emily made a face. “You.” She poured herself more tea, spilling it. At this she swore, using a word she had heard George use in the stables. Charlotte knew her reaction had nothing to do with the mess in the saucer; she was frustrated by the imprisonment of mourning, and above all the loneliness.

“I know I shall have to do it this time,” Charlotte agreed. “And you will have to instruct me. I shall gather what information I can, and together we will unravel what it means.”

It was not like being there herself, catching the nuances of tone, the expression fleeting across the face, the glance from one to another, but Emily knew that Charlotte’s idea was the best she could hope for, and she was grateful for it. It would have been ladylike to wait until Jack Radley called upon her. She did not imagine it would be long before he did; he had made his admiration plain enough six months ago and in the intervening time had visited her on many occasions. It was not the depth of his regard she doubted, but the quality. Did he court her for herself, or because she was George’s widow, with George’s position and George’s money? She enjoyed his company as much as she had ever enjoyed anyone’s—and that was a rather startling admission, considering her suspicions. Put how close is liking to loving?

When she had married George, he had been the catch of the season. Emily had been perfectly aware of his faults; she had considered them part of the bargain and accepted them graciously. He in turn had proved to be all that she had hoped, and had never criticized any of her imperfections. What had begun as a perfect understanding had grown into something much warmer. Her first perception of him had been as the handsome, reckless Lord George Ashworth, the ideal husband. Her feelings for George had matured into a gentle and loyal love, as she had begun to see the reality of a man who was worldly in sport and finance, charming in society, without the least duplicity in his nature, nor the least subtlety. She had always had enough wisdom to hide the fact that she was probably both more intelligent than he and more courageous. She had also been less tolerant and less generous in her judgments. He had had a quick temper, but it passed like a squall; he had overlooked the foibles of his own class and ignored the weaknesses of others. She did neither. Injustice infuriated her, more now than when she was younger. As time passed she was becoming more like Charlotte, who had always been opinionated, quick to anger, and a fighter against all she perceived to be wrong, even though that perception was sometimes hasty, and far too outspoken. Emily had been more sensible—at least until now.

Today she sat down and wrote a letter to Jack Radley, inviting him to call upon her at his earliest convenience, and dispatched the footman with it as soon as it was sealed.

His reply was satisfactorily rapid. He arrived in the early evening, the hour when in happier times she would have been dressing for an evening at dinner, or perhaps a ball or the theater. Now she sat by the fire reading Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, published the previous year. She was glad to be interrupted; the story was darker and far more frightening than she had supposed, and she could see the elements of tragedy already. She had it in a brown paper cover, in case the servants should be scandalized.

Jack Radley entered the moment after the parlormaid announced him. He was casually dressed, but his tailor was clearly his chief creditor. The cut of his trousers was immaculate, the jacket fit perfectly. It was his smile she looked to, however, and those remarkable eyes, which were full of concern.

“Emily, are you all right?” he asked, searching her face. “Your message sounded urgent. Has something happened?”

She felt a trifle foolish. “I’m sorry. It is not an emergency, and I am perfectly well, thank you. But I am bored to distraction, and Charlotte has discovered a mystery.” There was no point in lying to him; he was too like her to be deceived.

His face relaxed into a smile and he sat down on the chair opposite her. “A mystery?”

She tried to sound nonchalant, suddenly realizing that he might imagine she had dredged up an excuse to call him. “An old murder,” she continued quickly, “that may have a scandal behind it, or may not, in which case an innocent woman might be ruined and unable to marry the man she loves.”

He looked puzzled. “But what can you do? And how can I help?”

“There is a great deal the police can discover, of course, about facts,” she explained. “But they can’t make the sort of judgments we might, because it all has to be terribly discreet. “ She saw with a flicker of excitement that she had caught his interest. “And naturally no one would speak in front of the police as they might with us, nor would the police understand the shades of meaning if they did.”

“But how can we find ourselves in a position to observe these people?” he said seriously. “You haven’t told me who they are—but regardless of that, Emily, you cannot introduce yourself into Society again for some time.” His face tightened, and for an unpleasant moment she feared she saw pity in his eyes. She might have accepted pity from someone else, but coming from Jack it grated surprisingly, like an abrasion of the skin.

“I know I can’t!” she said, and instantly regretted the tartness in her voice, and yet was unable to stop it. “But Charlotte can, and then we can discuss it together. At least, she can if you will be prepared to help her.”

He smiled a little ruefully. “I am very good at scraping an acquaintance. Who are they?”

She looked up at his face, trying to read his expression. His eyelashes still shadowed his cheek the way she remembered. How many other women had thought precisely the same thing? Really, this was the utmost foolishness. Charlotte was right; she needed some occupation for her mind, before it became completely addled!

“The man who was murdered was Robert York,” she said briskly. “The widow is Mrs. Veronica York, of Hanover Close.” She stopped. He was smiling broadly.

“Not difficult at all,” he said confidently. “I used to know her. In fact . . .” He hesitated, apparently uncertain how indiscreet to be.

Emily felt a stab of jealousy that was quite uncharacteristic. She knew it was extremely silly; she was thoroughly aware of his reputation. And anyway, she was a woman who had never cherished delusions. She knew perfectly well that men held themselves accountable to quite a different set of standards from those they expected of women. It was only necessary never to be so flagrant that others could not affect ignorance; what they suspected was irrelevant. All realistic people knew as much. Judicious blindness was the only way to preserve peace of mind. But it was a standard Emily was becoming increasingly impatient with, even though she knew her feelings were foolish, and highly impractical.

“Did you part in a manner which would allow you to take up the acquaintance again?” she said crisply.

His face fell. “Certainly!”

She looked down, not wanting him to guess at any emotion in her, certainly nothing as unattractive as the truth.

“Then will you? With Charlotte? As you say, it would be impossible for me.”

“Of course,” he said slowly, and she knew he was looking at her. “But will Pitt approve? And I can hardly introduce her as a policeman’s wife. We’ll have to think of something better.”

“Thomas won’t have to know. She can come here first, borrow one of my dresses, and go as . . .” She searched her imagination. “As a cousin of yours up from the country. A close cousin, so it will not be in the least improper for you to accompany her without a chaperone.”

“Will she agree to that?” There was already interest in his voice, and not the incredulity he might have felt towards someone else. Perhaps he was remembering Cardington Crescent.

“Oh yes,” Emily said with intense determination. “Certainly she will.”

Two days later, handsomely dressed in one of Emily’s winter gowns adapted from last season—she had bought nothing but black this winter—Charlotte found herself in a smart carriage bowling along Park Lane towards Hanover Close, with Jack Radley beside her. He had called at the York house immediately upon parting from Emily. He left his card and asked if he might introduce to them his cousin, Miss Elisabeth Barnaby, who was newly come up from the country after nursing her aunt through a long and distressing illness, from which she was at last mercifully recovered. Now Miss Barnaby was in need of a little diversion, and for this reason Jack had presumed on an old acquaintance, in the hope he might introduce her.

The reply had been brief, but perfectly civil, quite enough upon which to call.

Charlotte pulled the rug tighter round her knees. The carriage was bitterly cold and it was raining hard outside, daggers of water stabbing the gutters, hissing under the wheels and spraying high. The leather upholstery inside felt damp to the touch—even the wood of the window frames was clammy. Emily’s dress was excellent, since her maid had let it out across the bosom and lengthened the cuffs an inch, all very suitable for a young woman recently come up from the country: while not obviously secondhand, neither was it of the latest fashion, such as might be worn by someone in no need of introduction. But Charlotte was still cold.

The carriage stopped. She glanced quickly at Jack Radley beside her and swallowed, feeling a tight flicker of apprehension. This was a very rash thing she was doing. Pitt would be furious if he knew, and the chance of being caught was very real. It would be easy enough to make a crucial mistake or slip of the tongue; she might have the misfortune to meet someone who had known her before her marriage, when she still moved in such circles.

The door was opened and Jack waited to hand her down. She stepped out, wincing against the cold needles of rain. She felt no better about the impending visit, but she could hardly remain in the carriage and say she had changed her mind. She weighed her sense of caution and the anticipation of Thomas’s anger against the excitement she had felt when she and Emily discussed the plan.

She was still of two minds when the parlormaid opened the front door and Jack handed her his card, which was engraved with his name. And Miss Elisabeth Barnaby had been added by hand. Now it was too late; the die was cast. Charlotte put on her most charming smile and stepped inside.

The parlormaid had a creamy complexion and dark hair. She was very pert, with wide eyes and a handspan waist; but then parlormaids were usually chosen for their looks. A handsome parlormaid was a mark of one’s status and taste.

Charlotte barely had time to glance round the hall, except to notice that it was spacious. The stair was wide and remarkably fine, with beautifully carved bannisters, and the chandelier blazed with light on this dark winter afternoon.

They were shown into the withdrawing room. There was no time to look at the furnishings or the paintings; all Charlotte’s attention was taken up by the two women who sat opposite each other on the overstuffed and buttoned red settees. The younger, who must be Veronica York, was tall, and perhaps a good deal too slender for the current fashion, but there was an intense femininity in the delicate lines of her shoulders and throat. Her soft black hair was swept up and off her face, showing a lovely brow and fine features, slightly hollow cheeks, and a startlingly sensuous mouth.

The older woman had thick, curly light brown hair; her curls were so rich no rags or irons could have created them, only nature. She looked to be considerably shorter than the other woman. Although she was of heavier build, she was still extremely comely in an embroidered gown of the latest fashion. Her features were regular and she had obviously been something of a beauty well into her prime. She was only just beyond it now, and the telltale lines on her pink and white skin were few, and round the mouth rather than the eyes. It was a face of arresting strength. This must be Loretta York, the dead man’s mother, whom Thomas had said behaved with such dignity on the night of the tragedy.

As mistress of the house she welcomed them, inclining her head to Jack and offering her hand. “Good afternoon Mr. Radley, how agreeable of you to call, and to bring your cousin.” She turned to Charlotte with a scrutinizing eye. “Miss Barnaby, I believe you said?”

Charlotte put on the most innocent air she could imagine and all but curtsied. She was supposed to be shy and grateful, seeking London Society and, as a single woman of desperate age, a husband.

“How do you do, Mrs. York. It is most kind of you to receive us.”

“I hope we find you as well as you look, ma’am.” Jack’s flattery was automatic; it was the usual coin of exchange, and he had dined out most of his adult life on his charm. “You make me forget it is winter outside, and several years since we last met.”

“I see your manners have not changed,” she said a trifle tartly, but there was a flush of pleasure in her cheeks. She might protest, discard it as convention, but she liked it all the same. “Of course you know my daughter-in-law,” she said, indicating the younger woman with no more than a glance in her direction.

Jack bowed again, very slightly, but enough for grace.

“Of course. I was most grieved to hear of your loss, and I hope that the future will hold some happiness for you.”

“Thank you.” A tiny smile touched the corners of Veronica York’s lips. Watching closely, Charlotte could see there was an old understanding between them that had been picked up effortlessly. A thought of Emily flashed into her mind, and she pushed it aside. That was another problem, to be faced at another time.

Veronica was looking past Jack and assessing Charlotte, judging the cut of her gown, its newness, its cost, as was Loretta. Charlotte was satisfied that it communicated her new status precisely—it was the gown of a country woman somewhat retired from Society by duties of compassion, but of good family and more than adequate means.

“I do hope you will find London to your liking, Miss Barnaby,” Veronica said graciously. “There will be much to divert you, but of course you must take care, because there is also company you would not wish, and it is easy enough to find yourself in distasteful places if you are not wise in your choices.”

Charlotte seized the chance. She smiled shyly. “That is most kind of you, Mrs. York. I shall be sure to take your advice. A woman’s reputation can be so quickly ruined.”

“Quite,” Loretta agreed. “Pray do be seated, Miss Barnaby.”

Charlotte thanked her and sat carefully on a stiff-backed chair, arranging her skirt. For a moment she was reminded with unpleasant clarity of the time before her marriage when she had often been in situations something like this. She had been escorted by her mother to all the right functions, shown off to best advantage in the hope that some eligible man would be attracted and a suitable marriage arranged. Always she had ended by expressing too forceful an opinion upon something, or laughing inappropriately, or being altogether too willful and failing to charm—quite often on purpose. But then she had thought herself in love with her elder sister’s husband, and the idea of marrying anyone else had been unspeakable. How long ago, how girlish, that seemed now! Nevertheless she remembered the relentless good manners, the pursuit of fashion, and all directed towards finding a husband.

“Have you been in London before, Miss Barnaby?” the elder Mrs. York was inquiring, her cool gray eyes summing up Charlotte’s very handsome figure and noting the tiny needle holes where the bodice had been let out.

For once Charlotte did not mind. This was only a part she was playing. And she must remember to observe closely, so as to have something to report back to Emily.

“Oh yes, but not for some time, owing to my aunt’s illness. Happily she is quite recovered, and I am free to take up my own life again. But I do feel I have missed so much. I imagine a great deal has happened in Society since.”

“No doubt,” Mrs. York said with a tiny smile. “Although there is a certain sameness in events from year to year, and only the people’s names change.”

“Oh, I think the people are quite different also,” Veronica argued. “And certainly the theater is.”

Mrs. York shot her a glance that Charlotte noted with interest: critical, then instantly muted; there was no gentleness in it. “You know very little of the theater,” she pointed out. “You have scarcely been till this year.” She turned to Charlotte. “My daughter-in-law is a recent widow. Naturally she has remained in mourning until quite lately.”

Charlotte had already decided to pretend complete ignorance of the affair in Hanover Close and anything to do with it. She put on an instant expression of sympathy.

“I am so sorry. Please accept my deepest condolences. I should not have troubled you had I known.” She turned to Jack, who studiously avoided her eye.

“It has been three years,” Veronica said into the rather awkward silence. She looked not at her mother-in-law’s face but downward to the rich wine-colored brocade of her own skirt, then back at Charlotte. “We too are taking up our lives again.”

“You are.” Mrs. York’s tone made the distinction delicate, but perfectly plain. It was charged with emotion, but try as she might, Charlotte could not define it. Was she reminding the younger woman that her own loss of a son was irreplaceable, and somewhat deeper than the loss of a husband, since Veronica planned to remarry? There seemed more in her face than awareness of her daughter-in-law’s pain, or even envy, or anything so vulnerable as self-pity. Her small, strong hands were white in her lap, and her eyes were glittering and sharp. Had not such an idea been so out of place, even ridiculous, Charlotte might have thought it a warning of some sort. But that was groundless, and an inaccurate observation.

Veronica’s full lips curved upwards in a tiny smile. Clearly she understood the significance of the reply.

“Indeed, Mr. Radley, you may congratulate me,” she said, looking up at him. “I am to be married again.”

In that instant Charlotte made a mental note that Veronica York and Jack Radley had certainly had a friendship that was more than merely amicable, at least on her part.

Jack smiled as if it were a happy surprise to him. “I hope you will have every blessing and good fortune.”

“And so do I,” Charlotte added. “I hope sadness will be completely in the past for you.”

“You are something of a romantic, Miss Barnaby,” Mrs. York remarked with her eyebrows raised. She was almost smiling, but there was a coldness in her that was palpable, something hard deep inside that was unresolved. Perhaps it was an old wound, and nothing to do with this. One never knew what pain or disillusion lay in other people’s lives, what lost hopes. Charlotte must endeavor to meet the Honorable Piers York at some time; it might explain much that she could only guess at now.

She smiled as dazzlingly at Mrs. York as she could. “Oh, but of course. Even if the reality is not always as one would wish, I hope for the best.” Was that the right sort of naïveté, or had she overdone it? She must not sit here for the brief half hour that was socially acceptable, and then leave again without having learned a thing. It would be some time before she could call again.

“So do I,” Veronica reassured her. “And it is most kind of you. Mr. Danver is an excellent man, and I am sure I shall be very happy.”

“Do you paint, Miss Barnaby?” Mrs. York asked, changing the subject abruptly, this time without looking at Veronica. “Perhaps Mr. Radley might take you to see the winter exhibition at the Royal Academy. I daresay it may interest you.”

“I don’t paint very well.” Let them take that as modesty, or the truth, as they chose. Actually, like all well-bred young ladies, she had been taught to paint, but her brush was never equal to her imagination. Since she had married Pitt and had two children, her only hobby had been meddling in his cases and detecting a great deal. She had a gift for it—even Pitt admitted so—but she could hardly own to that now!

“I had not supposed you to enter a work, Miss Barnaby, merely to observe,” Mrs. York replied with a small gesture of her hand, a wry dismissal of foolishness that stung Charlotte. But in her role as Miss Barnaby she was helpless to retaliate. “No skill would be required,” Mrs. York continued, “except to look elegant and speak modestly. I am sure you could do both of those with the greatest of ease.”

“You are very kind,” Charlotte said between her teeth.

Veronica leaned forward. She really was a beautiful woman, her face combining both fragility of bone with strength of mouth and eye. Her manner was as friendly as if they had known each other for some time. Charlotte found herself hoping Pitt would find her blameless enough to satisfy the people at the Foreign Office. The thought of their judgments lit a spark of anger inside her.

“Perhaps you would care to come with me,” Veronica offered. “I should be delighted to have your company. We could make all the remarks we wished and be utterly frank about what we like and dislike.” She did not look at her mother-in-law, but raised one slender shoulder in the smallest gesture of exclusion.

“I should be delighted,” Charlotte accepted sincerely. “It would be the greatest pleasure.” She was aware of Jack coughing in the chair next to hers and reaching for a handkerchief to hide his smile.

“Then it is settled,” Veronica said firmly. “It is not a favorite outing of Mama-in-law’s. I am sure she will be grateful for being spared it this year.”

“I have accompanied you to many places that were not especially to my liking!” Mrs. York said with cold eyes on Veronica. “And doubtless will do so again. Family responsibilities are something one never grows out of, nor is one able to escape them. I am sure you would agree with me, Miss Barnaby?” She spoke to Charlotte, but it was Veronica her glance fell on first, before turning with a change of expression so slight it was barely definable. Charlotte had the sudden, intense feeling that the two women disliked each other, perhaps even more than that.

Veronica stiffened, and a tightness crept into her neck, the long line of her throat, and her passionate mouth. She said nothing. Charlotte believed they were speaking of something quite different, and for all the tension between them and the underlying violence, they understood each other perfectly.

“Of course,” Charlotte murmured. After all, she was supposed to have spent the last two years nursing a sickly relative. What sacrifice to duty could an unmarried woman have greater than that? “Families are bound by both love and obligation.” It was almost time for them to leave. She must make one last effort at learning something deeper, beyond this sharp, unhappy impression. She discreetiy glanced rapidly round the room, without turning her head. She noticed an ormolu clock. If she were going to lie, she might as well do it in the grand manner.

“Oh what a delightful clock,” she said admiringly. “My cousin used to have one very like that, only a trifle smaller, I think, and one of the figures was clothed differently.” She shivered to add verisimilitude. “Unfortunately it was taken in a robbery. Such a dreadful experience.” She ignored Jack’s horrified expression and plunged on. “Quite as painful as the loss of possessions was the awful feeling that someone had broken into your house and perhaps actually stood within yards of your bedroom as you lay asleep! It took us all ages before we could retire again with the slightest peace of mind.” Through her lashes she was watching their faces. She was rewarded by a gasp from Veronica and a sudden rigidity in Mrs. York’s body under its folds of sumptuous silk. “We called the police, of course,” she went on relentlessly, “but no one was caught. And none of our precious things was ever recovered.”

Veronica opened her mouth, sat perfectly still, then closed it without speaking.

“What a misfortune for you.” Mrs. York’s voice was quite low, but there was a curious edge to it, and her words were unusually distinct, as if her control over them were precarious. “I am afraid it is part of present-day life. One is seldom as safe as one imagines. Be thankful, Miss Barnaby, that it was only goods of which you were robbed.”

Charlotte maintained her facade of innocence, although it stabbed her conscience. She gazed back at Mrs. York in bewilderment. Jack had already affected ignorance of the affair, so he could not now help. Charlotte saw the color drain from Veronica’s face. Again she seemed about to speak but then to lose the words. She raised her eyes to her mother-in-law, then before their glances met she looked away again.

Finally it was the older woman who broke the hot silence.

“My son was killed by an intruder in the house, Miss Barnaby. It is something we still find too distressing to discuss. That is what made me say you were fortunate to have lost only material possessions.”

“Oh, I am so sorry!” Charlotte said instantly. “Please forgive me for having brought you pain. How could I have been so clumsy.” A real feeling of guilt was burning inside her already. Not everything can be justified by the need for solutions to mysteries, however intriguing, or needed for Emily’s sake.

“You could not know,” Veronica said huskily. “Please do not feel at fault. I promise you, we do not hold you so.”

“I am sure your sensitivity will prevent you from raising the subject again,” Mrs. York said levelly, and Charlotte felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

Veronica was quick to see her embarrassment and rushed to ease it. “That hardly needs to be said, Mama-in-law!” Her tone carried reproof, and the undertone of dislike was there again, bleak and painful in this opulent and comfortable room. It was not a flash of irritation but a long-lived and bitter thing, surfacing suddenly. “I am sure Miss Barnaby needs to feel no blame for having mentioned her own misfortune; how could she have known of our—our tragedies? One cannot cease from all conversation in case it should waken a painful memory in someone else.”

“I believe that was the substance of my remark.” Mrs. York stared at her daughter-in-law, her brilliant eyes almost hypnotic in their concentration. “If Miss Barnaby is the person of sensibility I take her to be, having discovered our loss, she will not mention any subject close to it again while in our company. Surely that is plain enough?”

Veronica turned to Charlotte and put out her hand. “I hope you will call on us again, Miss Barnaby, and that you will come to the academy with me. I most sincerely meant my invitation; it was not merely a pleasantry.”

“I shall be delighted,” Charlotte said, taking the offered hand warmly. “It will be the greatest pleasure, and I look forward to it.” She rose. It was now time to leave; after that conversation it was the only possible course. Jack rose also and together they expressed their thanks and good wishes, and five minutes later they were in the chilly carriage with the clatter of hooves and the hissing of wheels in the rain. Charlotte wrapped the rug round herself more tightly, but nothing could keep all the icy spears of the draft away. Next time she borrowed a gown from Emily she would take a fur muff to go with it!

“I assume you will be going to the academy with Veronica?” Jack said after a moment or two.

“Of course!” She turned in her seat to look at him. “Don’t you think there is a great deal between Veronica and Mrs. York which the police could never discover? I think they both know something about the night of the burglary—although how we’ll ever learn it I can’t imagine.”