by Anne Perry
Cornwallis smiled, for the first time real humor lighting his eyes.
“Then you had better go and inform Tellman of his new duties. They are to begin this weekend.”
“This weekend!” Pitt was staggered.
“Yes. I’m sorry. I told you it was short notice. But I am sure you will manage.”
Tellman was a dour man who had grown up in bitter poverty and still expected life to deal him further blows. He was hardworking, aggressive, and would accept nothing he had not worked for. As soon as he saw the look on Pitt’s face he regarded him suspiciously.
“Yes, Mr. Pitt?” He never used “sir” if he could avoid it. It smacked of respect and inferiority.
“Good morning, Tellman,” Pitt replied. He had found Tellman in one corner of the charge room and they were sufficiently private for the confidentiality of what he had to say. There was only one sergeant present and he was concentrating on writing in the ledger. “Mr. Cornwallis has been in. There is a job for you. We are needed for this coming weekend. In the country.”
Tellman raised his eyes. He had a lugubrious face, aquiline-nosed, lantern-jawed, not undistinguished in his own fashion.
“Yes?” he said doubtfully. He knew Pitt far too well to be duped by courtesy. He read the eyes.
“We are to guard the welfare of a politician at a country house party,” Pitt continued.
“Oh yes?” Tellman was on the defensive already. Pitt knew his mind was conjuring pictures of rich men and women living idly on the fat of the land, waited on by people every bit as good as they but placed by society in a dependent position—and kept there by greed. “Politician being got at, is ’e?”
“He’s been threatened,” Pitt agreed quietly. “And there has been at least one attempt.”
Tellman was unimpressed. “Did more than ‘attempt’ to poor Denbigh, didn’t they? Or don’t that matter anymore?”
The room was so quiet Pitt could hear the scribbling of the sergeant’s quill on the paper. It was cold, so the windows were closed against the noises of the street. Beyond the door two men were talking in the passageway, their words inaudible, only the murmur of voices coming through the heavy wood. “This is the same case, only the other end of it,” he said grimly. “The politician concerned is involved in the Irish Problem, and this weekend is an attempt at least to begin a solution. It is extremely important that there be no violence.” He smiled at Tellman’s challenging eyes. “Whatever you think of him personally, if he can bring Ireland a single step closer to peace, he’s worth the effort to preserve.”
The ghost of a smile flickered over Tellman’s face.
“I suppose so,” he said grudgingly. “Why us? Why not local police? They’d be far better at it. Know the area, know the locals. Spot a stranger where we wouldn’t. I’m good at solving murders once they’ve happened, and I want to catch the bastard who killed Denbigh. I dunno a thing about preventing one at political parties. And with respect, Mr. Pitt, neither do you!” He put the “with respect” into his words, but there was not a shred of it in his voice. His next question betrayed his thoughts. “I suppose you agreed to it? Didn’t ask for it, did you?”
“No, I didn’t. And it was an order,” Pitt replied with a smile which was at least half a baring of the teeth. “I have no choice but to obey orders given me by a superior, just as you have now, Tellman.”
This time Tellman’s amusement was real.
“Run out on Denbigh, are we, and going to skulk around some lordship’s house instead, keeping an eye on peddlers and footpads and strangers lurking in the flower beds? A bit beneath the superintendent o’ Bow Street Station, isn’t it … sir?”
“Actually,” Pitt replied, “the party is to be held at my sister-in-law’s country house, Ashworth Hall. I shall be going as a guest. That is why it has to be me. Otherwise I should stay here on the Denbigh case and send someone else.”
Very slowly Tellman looked up and down Pitt’s lanky, untidy figure, his well-tailored jacket pulled out of shape by the number of odd articles stuffed into his pockets, his clean white shirt with tie slightly askew, and his hair curling and overlong.
His face was almost expressionless. “Oh, yes?”
“And you will be going as my valet,” Pitt added.
“What?”
The sergeant dropped his pen and splurted ink all over the page.
“You will be going as my valet,” Pitt repeated, keeping all emotion from his voice.
For an instant Tellman thought he was joking, exercising his rather unreliable sense of humor.
“Don’t you think I need one?” Pitt smiled.
“You need a damn sight more than a valet!” Tellman snapped back, reading his eyes and realizing suddenly that he meant it. “You need a bleedin’ magician!”
Pitt straightened up, squared his shoulders and pulled his lapels roughly level with each other.
“Unfortunately, I shall have to make do with you, which will be a grave social disadvantage. But you might be more use to the politician concerned—at least in saving his life, if not his sartorial standards.”
Tellman glared at him.
Pitt smiled cheerfully. “You will report to my home by seven o’clock on Thursday morning in a plain dark suit.” He glanced down at Tellman’s feet. “And new boots, if those you are wearing are all you have. Bring with you clean linen for six days.”
Tellman stuck out his lean jaw.
“Is that an order?”
Pitt raised his eyebrows very high. “Good heavens, do you think I’d be taking you if it weren’t?”
“When?” Charlotte Pitt said in incredulity when she was told. “When did you say?”
“This coming weekend,” Pitt repeated, looking very slightly abashed.
“That’s impossible!”
They were standing in the parlor of their house in Keppel Street, Bloomsbury, where they had moved after Pitt’s recent promotion. Until this moment, for Charlotte at least, it had been a very ordinary day. This news was astounding. Had he no conception of the amount of preparation necessary for such a weekend? The answer to that was simple. No, of course he hadn’t. Growing up on a country estate had made him familiar with such houses, probably with the number and duties of the staff, and perhaps with the daily routine when there were guests. But it had not given him any knowledge of the number and type of clothes those guests were expected to bring. A lady might wear half a dozen dresses on any given day, and certainly not recognizably the same gown for dinner every evening.
“Who else will be there?” she demanded, staring at him in dismay.
The expression in his face made it obvious he still did not grasp what he was expecting of her.
“Ainsley Greville’s wife, Moynihan’s sister and McGinley’s wife,” he replied. “But Emily is the hostess. All the duties will fall on her. You haven’t any need to worry. You will be there simply to lend me credibility, because you are Emily’s sister, so it will seem natural for us to attend.”
Frustration boiled up inside her. “Oh!” She let out a cry of exasperation. “Thomas! What do you suppose I am going to wear? I have about eight autumn or winter dresses to my name! And most of those are rather practical. How on earth can I beg or borrow ten more between now and Thursday?” Not to mention jewelry, shoes, boots, an evening reticule, a shawl, a hat for walking, dozens of things which, if she did not have them, would instantly make her conspicuously not a guest but a poor relation. Cornwallis’s idea of making the party appear like any other would be defeated before it began.
Then she saw his concern, and his doubt, and instantly she wished she had bitten her tongue before she had spoken. She hated the thought that her blurted words had made him feel as if he should have provided better for her, to keep up with Emily. Occasionally she had longed for the same pretty things, the glamour, the luxury, but at that moment, nothing had been further from her mind.
“I’ll find them!” she said quickly. “I’ll call Great-Aunt Vespasia, and
I daresay Emily herself can lend me something. And I’ll visit Mama tomorrow. How many days did you say it was for? Shall I take Gracie? Or shall we have to leave her here to care for Daniel and Jemima? We are not taking the children, are we? Is there any real danger, do you think?”
He still looked a trifle mystified, but the anxiety was clearing from his eyes.
“We need to take Gracie as your maid. Is your mother at home at present?”
Caroline had fairly recently remarried, most unsuitably—to an actor seventeen years her junior. She was extremely happy though she had lost several of her previous friends. She had made numerous new ones and traveled a great deal since Joshua’s profession took him out of London at times.
“Yes,” Charlotte said quickly, and then realized she had not actually spoken to her mother for over a fortnight. “I think so.”
“I don’t think there is any danger,” he said seriously. “But I am not sure. Certainly we shall not take Daniel and Jemima. If your mother cannot care for them, we shall leave them with Emily’s children in her town house. But you can call Aunt Vespasia tonight.”
Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould was Emily’s great-aunt by her first marriage, but she had become ever closer in friendship to both sisters—and also to Pitt, frequently involving herself in those cases which concerned high society, or social issues in which she had a crusading interest. In her youth she had been one of the outstanding beauties of her generation. Now in age she still preserved a timeless elegance and the bearing and dignity of one of England’s great ladies. She also had a tongue she no longer felt the need to curb, because her reputation was beyond damaging, and her spirit accepted no artificial bounds.
“I shall,” Charlotte agreed. “Right away. How many days did you say?”
“You had better prepare for five or six.”
She swept out, her head already whirling with ideas, problems, domestic details, plans and difficulties.
She picked up the telephone and had little trouble in establishing a connection with Vespasia’s house in London. Within three minutes she was talking to Vespasia herself.
“Good evening, Charlotte,” Vespasia said warmly. “How are you? Is all well?”
“Oh yes, thank you, Aunt Vespasia, everything is very well. How are you?”
“Curious,” Vespasia replied, and Charlotte could hear the smile in her voice. She had intended to be tactful and approach her request obliquely. She should have known better. Vespasia read her too well.
“About what?” she said airily.
“I don’t know,” Vespasia replied. “But once we have dispensed with the trivia of courtesy, no doubt you will tell me.”
Charlotte hesitated only a moment. “Thomas has a case,” she admitted, “which requires that we both spend several days in a country house.” She did not specify which one, not because she did not trust Vespasia absolutely, but she was never totally sure if the telephone operator could overhear any of the conversation.
“I see,” Vespasia replied. “And you would like a little counsel on your wardrobe?”
“I am afraid I would like a great deal!”
“Very well, my dear. I shall consider the matter carefully, and you may call upon me tomorrow morning at eleven.”
“Thank you, Aunt Vespasia,” Charlotte said sincerely.
“Not at all. I am finding society very tedious at the moment. Everything seems to be repeating itself. People are making the same disastrous alliances they always have, and observers are making the same pointless and unhelpful observations about it. I should welcome a diversion.”
“I shall be there,” Charlotte promised cheerfully.
Charlotte then telephoned her mother, who was delighted to have the children. She hung up the receiver and went upstairs briskly to start sorting out petticoats, stockings, camisoles—and of course there was the whole matter of what Pitt would take. He must look appropriate as well. That was most important.
“Gracie!” she called as soon as she reached the landing. “Grade!” She would have to explain at least the travel plans to Gracie, and what would be expected of her, if not yet anything of the reason. There were hundreds of things to be done. The children’s clothes must be packed, and the house be made ready to leave.
“Yes, ma’am?” Gracie appeared from the playroom, where she had been tidying up after the children had gone to bed. She was twenty now, but still looked like a child herself. She was so small Charlotte had to take up her dresses, but at least she had filled out a little bit and did not look so much like the waif she had been when she first came to them at thirteen. But the biggest change in her was her self-assurance. She could now read and write, and she had actually been of marked and specific assistance in more than one case. She had the most interesting master and mistress on Keppel Street, possibly in Bloomsbury, and she was satisfyingly aware of it.
“Gracie, we are all going away this coming weekend. Daniel and Jemima will go to my mother’s in Cater Street. Mrs. Standish will feed the cats. The rest of us are going to the country. You are coming with me as my maid.”
Grade’s eyes widened. This was a role she was untrained for. It was socially several stations above household, and she had begun life as a maid of all work. She had never lacked courage, but this was daunting, to say the least.
“I shall tell you what to do,” Charlotte assured her. Then, seeing the alarm in her eyes, “It is one of the master’s cases,” she added.
“Oh.” Gracie stood quite still. “I see. Then we in’t got no choice, ’as we!” She lifted her chin a trifle. “We’d best be gettin’ ready, then.”
2
THE CARRIAGE, which like the clothes had been borrowed from Aunt Vespasia for the occasion, arrived at Ashworth Hall late on Thursday morning. Charlotte and Pitt had sat in the back, facing forward. Gracie and the policeman, Tellman, had sat in the front, facing the way they had come.
Gracie had never ridden in a carriage before. Normally she used the public omnibus if she needed to travel at all, and that was extremely rarely. She had never been at such a speed before, except once when she had, to her terror and amazement, ridden in the underground train. That was an experience never to be forgotten, and if she had any say in the matter, never to be repeated either. And it did not count, because it was through a black tunnel, and you could not see where you were going. To sit in a comfortably upholstered seat, with springs, in a carriage with four perfectly matched horses, and fly along the roads into the countryside was quite marvelous.
She did not look at Tellman, but she was acutely conscious of him sitting bolt upright beside her, exuding disapproval. She had never seen such a sour face on anybody before. From the look of him you would have thought he was in a house with bad drains. He never said a word from one milestone to the next.
They swept up the long, curving drive under the elm trees and stopped in front of the great entrance with its magnificent front door, the smooth, classical pillars and the flight of steps. The footman jumped down and opened the door, and another footman appeared from the house to assist.
Even Gracie, a servant, was given an arm to balance her as she alighted. Perhaps they thought she would be likely to fall without it, and they might be right. She had forgotten how far down it was to the ground.
“Thank you,” she said primly, and straightened her dress. She was a lady’s maid now, and should be treated as such. She should accept such courtesies as her due … for the weekend.
Tellman grunted as he got out, regarding the liveried footman with conceded disgust. However, Gracie noticed he could not help looking up at the house, and in spite of his best intentions, there was admiration in his eyes for the sheer magnificence of the Georgian windows, row upon row, and the smooth ashlar stone broken by the scarlet creeper which climbed it.
Charlotte and Pitt were welcomed inside.
Tellman went as if to follow Pitt.
“Servant’s entrance, Mr. Tellman,” Gracie whispered.
Tellman
froze. A tide of color swept up his cheeks. At first Gracie thought it was embarrassment, then she realized from his rigid shoulders and clenched fists that it was rage.
“Don’t show up the master by making a fool o’ yerself, goin’ w’ere it in’t your place!” she said under her breath.
“He isn’t my master!” Tellman retorted. “He’s a policeman, just like any of us.” But he turned on his heel and followed Gracie, who was walking behind the footman as he showed them around to the side—a considerable way in a house the size of this one.
The footman took them in through the smaller entrance, along a wide passage, and stopped at a doorway where he knocked. A woman’s voice answered and he opened the door and showed them in.
“Tellman and Phipps, Mr. and Mrs. Pitt’s personal servants, Mrs. Hunnaker,” he said, then withdrew, closed the door behind him and left them alone in a neat, well-furnished parlor with easy chairs, a pleasant piece of carpeting, two pictures on the walls and clean antimacassars on the chair backs. Embroidered samplers hung above the mantelpiece, and there was a brisk fire burning in the wrought-iron grate surrounded by painted tiles.
Mrs. Hunnaker was in her fifties with a long, straight nose and thick gray hair which was extremely handsome, lending her face a certain charm. She looked like a well-bred governess.
“I expect you’ll find it strange,” she said, regarding them closely. “But we’ll make you welcome. Danny’ll show you your rooms. Men servants use the back stairs, women the front. Don’t forget that.” She looked particularly at Tellman. “Mealtimes are breakfast in the servants’ hall at eight o’clock. Porridge and toast. You will eat with the servants, naturally. Dinner is between twelve and one, and supper will be before the guests’. If your lady and gentleman want you at these times, Cook’ll keep you something. Ask, never take. Likewise, if your lady and gentleman wants a cup of tea, or a little something to eat, ask Cook if you can prepare it. We can’t have every servant in the house coming and going willy-nilly or we’ll never get a decent meal served. Laundry maids’ll wash for you, but expect you to do your own lady’s ironing.” She looked at Gracie.