Silence in Hanover Close

by Anne Perry

  But surely justice—! The truth? Ballarat would—

  She must stop behaving like a child, deceiving herself into comfort, finding excuses to avoid the painful. Ballarat would do nothing.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” she said quietly. “Don’t ask Emily to come home. The only way she can help Thomas is by staying where she is. Whoever murdered Cerise, and Robert York and Dulcie, is in Hanover Close, and the only way we are going to find that person is by watching them so closely we see what emotions lie behind the facades, who is frightened, who is lying.”

  He sat still. For a moment she was afraid he was going to argue, point out the dangers to Emily, perhaps even tell her all the accidents that could be made to happen; but he said nothing.

  “You and I can keep going as often as possible,” she went on. “But we can never see them in their unguarded moments as she can. Have you any idea how much a woman trusts her lady’s maid?”

  For the first time he smiled. “I imagine about as much as a man trusts his valet,” he answered. “Or perhaps a trifle more: women spend more time at home, and on the whole give more attention to appearance.”

  There was another aspect that needed explaining, Charlotte realized.

  “Jack, she probably won’t see a newspaper. Maids don’t, especially if there is something sensational in it. The butler will keep it from them.” She saw the surprise in his face. “Of course he will! He won’t want all his maids swapping horror stories under the stairs, and up half the night with nightmares.” It was plain from Jack’s face that he had never thought of that, and she realized with a brief shadow of pity that he had very few roots. He was an eternal guest, never a host, too well-bred to be poor, but without the means to keep up with his peers. But there was no time for such issues now. Then she remembered that already one of her own servants had left, and if Pitt was not cleared very soon there would be pressure on Gracie too. Her mother would try to persuade her to find a better place. And come to think of it, Charlotte had no money and she would not be able to keep Gracie anyway, or anyone else. She had enough of her allowance from her own inheritance to eat, at least for a few weeks—The fear loomed up again. She was not only afraid of isolation and insufficient means, but worst of all, life without Pitt. There was not even time to make up for the stupid arguments, to be to him all the things she wanted to be.

  She must not think of it, it would destroy her. She took a long breath, her lungs hurting as if the air were sharp. She must fight—anybody and everybody if necessary.

  “Please ask Emily to stay there,” she repeated.

  “I will.” Jack hesitated, and for the first time he looked awkward, his eyes avoiding hers, scanning the tabletop, the row of blue-ringed dishes on the dresser beyond. “Charlotte—have you any money?”

  She swallowed. “For a while.”

  “It’s going to be hard.”

  “I know.”

  He colored faintly. “I can give you a little.”

  She shook her head. “No. Thank you, Jack.”

  He searched for words. “Don’t—don’t let pride—”

  “It’s not pride,” she assured him. “I’m all right for now. And when I’m not ...” Please God she would have found the murderer by then, and Pitt would be free! “When I’m not, Emily will help.”

  “I’ll go and tell her. I’ll say it’s a family illness—they’ll let e in for that. Even the butler wouldn’t be martinet enough to deny anyone the right to that sort of news.”

  “But how will you explain knowing it? You’ll have to explain that, or they’ll be suspicious.” Always at the front of her mind was the necessity to learn the truth, before everything else. “They won’t leave you alone with her, you know. There’ll be the housekeeper there, or the other lady’s maid, for propriety if nothing else.”

  He looked taken aback for a moment, then he brightened. “Write a letter. I’ll say it’s from her family, explaining the situation. She can ask for a day off, to come and visit you on your sickbed.”

  “Half day,” she corrected automatically. “She hasn’t been there long enough for one yet, but they might give it to her on grounds of compassion. Please do, Jack—go today. I’ll write a letter straightaway, and I’ll tell her to burn it as soon as she’s read it. There are plenty of fires.” She stood up even as she was speaking and went hastily into the parlor, turning up the lights, not noticing how cold it was till her fingers touched the icy surface of the desktop. She took out paper, ink, and pen and began to write.

  Dearest Emily,

  Something completely appalling has happened—Thomas found Cerise but she was already dead. Someone broke her neck, and they have arrested him for her murder. They have taken him to “the Steel” in Coldbath Fields, to await trial. I went to Mr. Ballarat, but he will do nothing. Either they have told him to leave it alone, or he is simply a coward and is only too glad to be rid of Thomas before he unearths something embarrassing about someone in power.

  It is all up to us now, there is no one else. Please stay where you are and be very, very careful! Remember Dulcie! Half of me wants to beg you to come home with Jack immediately, tonight, so you will be safe; the other half knows you and I are Thomas’s only chance. He must have been close on the trail of someone very powerful and very dangerous. Please Emily, be careful. I love you,

  Charlotte

  She blotted it rather clumsily. It was scribbled, and her fingers were stiff. Then without rereading it she folded it, not very straight, and slipped it into an envelope. She sealed it, put the top back on the ink, and turned the gas down before going back to the kitchen. She gave the letter to Jack.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he promised. “We must plan.”

  She nodded, overwhelmed with loneliness now that he was going. With him here she did not feel so frightened; even with Gracie’s loyalty, and the children, she would be alone when he was gone. Then there would be time to think, and nothing to do all the long, cold night. She dreaded waking in the morning.

  “Good night.” She forced the moment to come, because waiting for it was worse, and she did not want to weep again. It was pointless, and too hard to stop.

  “Good night.” Now at the point of going he also seemed reluctant. He was worried for her, and she knew it. Perhaps he really did love Emily. What an unspeakable way to discover it!

  Jack hesitated a moment more, then as he could think of nothing further to say, turned and went to the door. She followed to let him out and watched him step into the street, where the wet cobbles shone in the dim gaslight, globes hung like baleful moons in haloes of rain.

  He touched her cheek gently, then walked rapidly away towards the main road and the passing hansoms.

  She was so tired she should have slept well, but her dreams were filled with fear, and she woke up many times, fighting for breath, her body aching with tension and her throat sore. The darkness seemed interminable, and when at last the gray dawn came, with rain beating on the window, it was a relief to get up. She was so tired she fumbled with her gown when she went downstairs to draw the pitcher of hot water, then changed her mind and washed in the kitchen anyway; it was warmer. Before dressing she decided to have a cup of tea. The taste of it would wash away some of the gritty feeling and its heat might wash out the tightness in her throat.

  She was still sitting at the kitchen table when Gracie came in, also in her dressing gown, her hair down over her shoulders. She looked like a child. Charlotte had never noticed how threadbare her nightclothes were before. She must get her new ones—if she could ever afford it again. She wished she had done it sooner.

  Gracie stood still, eyes wide, afraid to speak and uncertain what to say. But her gaze was perfectly steady and hot with loyalty. She longed to ask Charlotte if she was all right but did not dare, in case it seemed impertinent.

  “Have a cup of tea before we begin,” Charlotte offered. “The kettle’s still just about boiling.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Gracie accepted with
some awe; she had never in her life before sat at the kitchen table taking tea in her nightgown.

  But from then on the day got worse. The baker’s boy did not call but passed on down the street. The fishmonger’s boy, on the contrary, rang loudly, presented the account up to date, and demanded payment in full, with the warning that should madam be buying fish in future—which he appeared to doubt—all transactions would be strictly for payment in cash and on delivery. Gracie told him to be about his business and all but boxed his ears on the doorstep, but she was sniffing fiercely and her eyes were red when she came back to the kitchen.

  Charlotte thought of sending her for bread, then realized how unfair that would be, and perhaps rash; obviously her loyalty was intense and she would retaliate against any jibes, even if only overheard. Charlotte was older and surely could learn to keep the peace. She should not hide behind a girl.

  The experience was worse than she expected. She had never been more than civil to most of her neighbors. They knew from her speech, her manner, the quality of her clothes—though cut down from previous years—even the sight of Emily’s carriage now and then, that Charlotte was not of their background or stock. On the surface they were civil, even friendly from time to time, but resentment lay close under the surface, fear of the different, envy of privilege; though most of it was long in the past now, it was not forgiven.

  She walked down the pavement with the wind pulling at her coat and the rain soaking her skirts. She was glad to reach the corner and the shelter of the grocer’s shop. As she went in the door the few women inside stopped talking and stared at her. One of them had a son who was a petty thief, serving six months in the Scrubs. She hated all police, and now was her chance to gain a little revenge with impunity. No one could blame her for it, nor defend the wife of a man who imprisoned other men, and then murdered a prostitute himself. She glared at Charlotte, hitched her basket onto her hip, and walked out of the shop, passing her so roughly that Charlotte was nearly knocked off balance, bruising her and leaving her startled by the suddenness as much as the pain. The other women tittered with amusement.

  “Good mornin’, Mrs. Pitt, I’m sure!” one of them said loudly. “An’ ’ow are we today, then? Not so ’igh an’ mighty? Take our turn with the rest, will we?”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Robertson,” Charlotte replied coldly. “I am quite well, thank you. Is your mother better? I heard she caught a chill in the rain.”

  “She’s poorly,” the woman said, taken aback that Charlotte had not retaliated more in kind. “What’s it ter you?”

  “Nothing at all, Mrs. Robertson, except good manners,” Charlotte answered. “Have you finished your purchases?”

  “No I ’aven’t! You wait yer turn!” And she moved to stand square in front of the counter again, her eyes roving slowly over the shelves, deliberately taking as long as she could. There was nothing for Charlotte to do but contain her temper and wait.

  The grocer shifted from one foot to the other, weighing where his profit lay, and chose the obvious. He ignored Charlotte and smiled toothily at Mrs. Robertson.

  “I’ll ’ave ’alf a pound o’ sugar,” she said with satisfaction, tasting power like a sweet in her mouth. “Hif you please, Mr. Wilson.”

  The grocer dipped into his sack and put half a pound little by little into the scales, then emptied it into a blue paper bag and gave it to her.

  “I changed me mind.” She glanced at Charlotte maliciously, and then back at the grocer. “I’m feelin’ rich this mornin; I’ll ’ave an ’ole pound.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Robertson. O’ course.” The grocer weighed another half pound carefully and gave it to her.

  The door opened and the bell rang as another woman entered and took her place behind Charlotte.

  “An’ I’ll ’ave some Pears’ soap,” Mrs. Robertson added. “Fer the complexion. It’s very good, in’t it, Mrs. Pitt? Is that wot you use? Not that yer’ll be able ter afford it now! Come down in yer ideas a bit, won’t yer?”

  “Possibly. But it takes more than a bar of soap to make a beauty, Mrs. Robertson,” Charlotte said coldly. “Did you ever find your umbrella?”

  “No I didn’t!” Mrs. Robertson said angrily. “There’s a lot o’ people round ’ere in’t as honest as they makes out. I reckon as somebody stole it!”

  Charlotte raised her eyebrows. “Call a policeman,” she said with a smile.

  The woman glared at her, and this time it was the other woman who sniggered under her breath.

  But the verbal victory was brief and gave her no pleasure, and at the baker’s it was worse, no jibes, only silence, until she was leaving, when there were whispers behind hands and a nodding of heads. She was asked for cash, and it was counted carefully before being put into the till with a snap. If things became hard, there would be no credit for her, she knew without asking—no allowances, and probably from now on no deliveries. The greengrocer made some excuse about being short of help, even though there was a boy standing idle over the sack of potatoes, obviously waiting for something to do, and Charlotte had to carry her heavy bags home herself. A boy of about nine or ten ran past her yelling, “Haya! Rozzer’s in the Steel! They’ll ’ang ’im fer sure! Dingle dangle, see ’im dance!” and did a little skip in and out of the gutter.

  She tried to ignore him, but the words struck black terror in her, and by the time she got home, soaking wet, her arms aching, shoulders dragging with the weight of her purchases, she was close to despair.

  She was barely inside and had just taken off her wet boots and was setting them near the stove in the kitchen when she heard the front doorbell. Gracie looked at her and without being asked went to open it. She came back a moment later, her feet light along the passage, her skirt swishing round the door.

  “Ma’am! Ma’am, it’s your mama, Mrs. Ellison. Shall I bring ’er through ’ere? It’s terrible cold in the parlor. I’ll make yer a cup o’ tea, then I’ll go upstairs an’ get on wiv the bedrooms.”

  Charlotte felt little of Gracie’s trust; she was much less certain of what Caroline would have to say. She stood up quickly.

  “Yes—yes, you’d better.” There was no alternative: she could not ask anyone to sit in the freezing parlor, nor could she bear to herself. Her wet feet were still numb, and the edges of her skirts were steaming as the kitchen’s warmth reached them. “I’ll make the tea,” she added. It would give her something to do. And it would allow her an excuse to turn her back.

  “Yes ma’am.” Gracie disappeared, her feet tip-tapping lightly on the linoleum.

  Caroline came in, having already divested herself of her coat, and since she had naturally come in a carriage, she was not wet except for the soles of her neat high-button boots.

  “Oh, my dear!” She held her arms open. Perfunctorily, because there was nothing else to do, Charlotte responded, holding her for only a moment before stepping back. “I’ll make us a cup of tea,” she said quickly. “I’ve only just come in myself and I’m perished, and wet.”

  “Charlotte, my dear, you must come home.” Caroline sat down a little gingerly on one of the kitchen chairs.

  “No thank you,” Charlotte said instantly. She reached for the kettle and filled it, setting it on the hob.

  “But you can’t stay here!” Caroline argued, her voice ringing with reason. “The newspapers are full of the story! I don’t think you realize—”

  “I realize perfectly!” Charlotte contradicted her. “If I hadn’t before I went to the shops, I certainly do now. And I am not running away.”

  “Darling, it’s not running away!” Caroline stood up and came over as if to touch her again, then sensed her daughter’s resentment. “You must face reality, Charlotte. You have made a mistake which has turned out tragically for you. If you come home now, take your maiden name again, I can—”

  Charlotte froze. “I will not! How dare you suggest such a thing! You’re speaking as if you imagined Thomas were guilty!” She turned round slowly, cups and saucers in h
er hands. “For the children’s sake you can take them, if you will. If you won’t, then they’ll have to stay here as any ordinary man’s would have to. I’m not ashamed of Thomas—I’m ashamed of you for wanting me to run away and deny him instead of fighting! I am going to find out who killed that woman, and prove it, just as I did for Emily when they thought she murdered George—for which she had far more reason!”

  Caroline sighed and kept her patience, which made it worse. “My dear, that was quite different,” she began.

  “Oh? Why? Because she is ‘one of us’ and Thomas isn’t?”

  Caroline’s face tightened. “If you insist on putting it that way—yes.”

  “Well, you’ve been glad enough to have him ‘one of us’ when you needed him!” Charlotte could feel herself close to losing control, and it made her furious, both with herself and with Caroline.

  “You must be realistic,” Caroline began again.

  “You mean desert him quickly, so people can see I have nothing to do with it?” Charlotte demanded. “How honorable you are, Mama! How brave!”

  “Charlotte, I’m only thinking of you!”

  “Are you?” Charlotte’s disbelief was strident, because she thought what Caroline said was probably honest. It was what other people would think too, and it terrified her. She did not care if she was being unjust, she wanted to hurt. “Are you sure you aren’t thinking of the neighbors, and what your friends will say about you?” she went on, mimicking their voices savagely. “ ‘You know that nice Mrs. Ellison, well you’ll never believe it, but her daughter married a policeman—isn’t that dreadful—and now he’s gone and committed a murder! I always said no good comes of marrying beneath you.’ ”

  “Charlotte! I didn’t say that.”

  “But you thought it!”

  “You are being quite unfair! And the kettle is boiling. You are filling the kitchen with steam and it’ll boil dry. For goodness’ sake make the tea and have a cup. Perhaps you will be able to think a little more clearly. Loyalty to Thomas is all very well, but it is self-indulgent. This has happened, and you must be practical and think of the children.”