by Anne Perry
“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 pr
operly; 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.”