by Anne Perry
She was quite right at least in that the room was filling with steam. Charlotte made the tea, burning her hand on the kettle and refusing to admit it. She set the teapot on the table and fiddled furiously in the cupboard for biscuits. When she found them she spilled them onto a plate and set it down, then poured the tea and passed it. Finally she sat down, hardly more composed.
“I would be very grateful if you took the children,” she said carefully. “It would protect them from—from the worst, at least—” She stopped. She had been going to say, “for the time being,” and even that thought was a betrayal.
“Of course,” Caroline said quickly. “And as soon as you want to come, too, you know there is always a place for you.”
“I—am—not—coming,” Charlotte said very slowly and deliberately.
“Then go and stay with Emily in the country,” Caroline urged her. “Thomas would understand. He wouldn’t expect you to stay here. What can you do? Make a show of being brave and letting everyone know you believe he is innocent? My dear, it will only get you hurt, and it will make no difference at all in the end. Leave it to the police.”
Charlotte felt the tears running down her face. She fished out a handkerchief and blew her nose, then took a sip of her tea before replying. She could hardly tell her mother that Emily was no more in the country than Pitt was.
“The police are perfectly happy to leave it as it is,” she said coldly. “Thomas has discovered something they would prefer not to know. I have no wish to join Emily. I have written to her, of course. But I am a very good detective myself; I shall discover who killed Robert York, and it will be the same person who killed this woman in pink.”
“My dear, you cannot know what really happened, or why Thomas was in Seven Dials with this—this woman in pink.” Caroline’s face was very pale. “We don’t know really as much about our husbands as we sometimes imagine.”
Out of her own pain Charlotte was deliberately cruel. “You mean, as you didn’t know about Papa?”
Caroline flinched and the words died before they reached her lips.
Charlotte was sorry, but it was too late. “But he didn’t kill those girls, did he!” she said, finishing what she had begun.
“No, and I was grateful to the police for proving it,” Caroline admitted. “But I could not give back the knowledge of what he had done, nor ever stop wondering at how little I had known him, how much I simply thought I did. Don’t press for the truth, Charlotte. You would be much wiser to leave it to the police, and hope they will tell you only what you have to know.”
“If that is the best you can offer, it would be better if we did not discuss it.” Charlotte stood up, leaving the rest of her tea. “I’ll go and pack some things for the children and you can take them with you now. It will be easier than saying long good-byes. Anyway, there’s no point in your going and then having to come back for them. Thank you; I appreciate it,” and without waiting for Caroline to offer any answer she went straight out of the kitchen and upstairs, leaving her mother at the table with the teapot and the biscuits.
After Caroline was gone, taking Daniel and Jemima with her, holding onto their hands as she had with Charlotte and Emily when they were children, Charlotte felt truly ashamed. She had been unjust. She had expected Caroline to understand things that were completely outside her world. But her mother did not have Charlotte’s experience, and it was both unfair and stupid to suppose she could think as Charlotte did. It was not so long ago Pitt had had to be patient with her, excuse her prejudices and assumptions. And what was worse, she had reminded Caroline of pain, disillusionment that still cut deep, tarnishing old memories, which—now that Edward was dead—were all she had. Charlotte had known what she was doing, and done it just the same. When this was all over Charlotte would say something to her; now she was too frightened, too worried to find the words, or to trust herself to deliver them.
She started by being practical. How much money was there, and what had to be done with it? If it came to a choice between food and coal, how should she portion out the resources? The best thing was to check the cellar and see what there was. From now on it would be more potatoes and bread, and less meat. She would have to ask Gracie where the cheapest places were to shop.
Jack came a little before three. It was heavily overcast and the light was already beginning to fade. Gracie let him in and he went straight to the kitchen.
“I saw Emily,” he said immediately. “I told the butler a wonderful lie about her sister being ill and that I knew it through Lady Ashworth, for whom Emily—sorry. For whom Amelia had worked before. They swallowed it all.” He swung his coattails aside elegantly out of habit and sat down at the table. He looked at Charlotte very soberly. “She agreed to stay there; in fact, she insisted. I hope to God she’ll be all right. I’ve racked my brain for some way to protect her, but I can’t think of anything. She’s got a half day off on Saturday, and she said she’ll meet you in Hyde Park on the first seat as you go in nearest Hanover Close, at two in the afternoon, regardless of the weather. Until then, what can I do?”
“I don’t know,” Charlotte admitted. “I went to the prison yesterday, but they wouldn’t let me see Thomas. I only know what I read in the newspapers.”
“I went out and got them all.” He could not keep the anxiety from his face. “They say he asked people all over the city where he could find Cerise. Several street sellers will swear to that. It seems the running patterer who actually took him to Seven Dials only watched Pitt go in; he didn’t go in himself. It was a brothel, of sorts, and the landlord says Pitt asked him to describe the woman very closely and only wanted to see her if she was the right one. The landlord took him up. No one else passed, and when the man went up a few minutes later he found Pitt bending over with his hands around her neck.” He was very pale. “I’m sorry.”
She searched his face, but his gaze did not waver.
“Then there’s no point in going to Seven Dials,” she said as calmly as she could. “Not that I ever thought there would be. The answer is in Hanover Close. I must go and see Veronica York again. Will you take me?”
“Of course. And I’ll take you to Coldbath Fields as well. You shouldn’t go alone.”
“Thank you.” She tried to think of something else to say, and failed.
This time she was allowed into the prison, a great cold place whose massive walls were like misery set in stone, condensation making even the inner corridors feel cold and sour. Everywhere was the smell of human sweat and stale air. The warden did not look at her as he spoke, and she was led into a small room with a scarred wooden table and two upright chairs. This privilege was granted only because Pitt was still technically an innocent man.
It took all the strength she possessed not to weep when she saw him. His clothes were dirty, the clean shirt she had brought him was already torn, and there were bruises on his face. She dared not imagine what there might be on his body that she could not see. Neither wardens nor prisoners had any love for a policeman turned murderer. The warden commanded Charlotte and Pitt to sit at opposite sides of the table while he stood upright in the corner like a sentry and watched them.
For several moments she just sat and stared. It would be ridiculous to ask him how he was. He knew she cared; that was all that was necessary, and there was nothing she could do to alter any of it.
Then the emotion became too strong and she spoke simply to break the tension.
“Mama has taken the children. It will be easier for them, and for me. Gracie is wonderful. I sent a letter to Emily. Jack Radley took it to her. I asked her to stay where she is—don’t argue with me. It is the only way we shall learn anything.”
“Charlotte, you must be careful!” He leaned forward, then as the jailer stepped towards them, realized the uselessness of it. “You must get Emily out of there—it’s too dangerous!” he said urgently. “Someone has already killed three times to keep the silence over what happened that night in Hanover Close. You mustn’t
go again. Send a letter to say you are sick, or that you’re going back to the country. That would be better. Promise me! Leave it to Ballarat, he’ll handle it now. They haven’t told me who he’s put on the case, but whoever it is will come and see me, and I’ll tell him all I know. We must be getting close for them to have killed Cerise. Promise me, Charlotte!”
Her hesitation was only momentary. She would defend him in whatever manner necessary, and by whatever means she could find. She did not stop to think, or weigh judgment, any more than she would have done had Daniel or Jemima been in the street in front of a runaway horse. It was as instinctive as gasping for breath when the water closes over your head.
“Yes, Thomas, of course,” she lied without a flicker. “Emily will stay with me for a while, or I’ll stay with her. Don’t worry about any of us, we’ll be perfectly all right. Anyway, I’m sure Mr. Ballarat won’t take long to discover the truth. He must know perfectly well that you couldn’t have killed Cerise. Whyever should you?”
Some of the fear eased out of his face and he tried to smile. “Good,” he said quietly. “At least I know you’re all right. Thank you for your promise.”
There was no time for guilt; the hangman waited. She smiled back. “Of course,” she said with a gulp. “Don’t worry about us.”
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.