by Anne Perry
Pitt looked at Stripe, who was obviously embarrassed at such an intimate subject and hurt by the pity he felt but only half understood. He realized this was a whole sea of pain he did not comprehend.
“Thank you,” Pitt nodded. “I don’t think it helps us, and I see no reason to tell the family. It will only cause unnecessary distress. Let her keep her secret.”
“Yes, sir.” Stripe withdrew, something like relief in his face.
Charlotte looked up and smiled. She did not need to praise him; he knew it was there in all the unsaid words between them.
Luncheon was as miserable as breakfast had been, and Emily sat at the dining room table more in defiance than because of any delusion that it would be more endurable than eating alone in her room. An additional incentive was the growing conviction that the ring was tightening round her, and unless she could find her own escape she was going to be charged with murder.
Charlotte had told her about following Tassie and discovering the secret of her midnight excursions and the blood on her dress. A difficult delivery could be a very messy affair; the afterbirth could look, in the glare of lamplight, like the gore of a butchery. And no wonder Tassie had worn such a look of calm delight! She had witnessed the beginning of a new life, the last act in the creation of a human being. Could anything at all be further from the madness of which they had suspected her?
Thomas had been here this morning, had spoken to Charlotte and left again, without explanation or, apparently, any further investigation. Although, to be fair to him, Emily could think of nothing else for him to ask.
She looked round the table at them from under her lashes, so no one would notice, while she pushed a lump of boiled chicken round her plate. Tassie was sober, but there was a glow of happiness inside her that no awareness of others’ distress could extinguish. Emily found most of her could honestly be pleased for her; only a tiny core, one she would willingly have quenched, was sharp with envy. Then she felt an unclouded sense of relief that there was no reason on earth to suspect Tassie of any kind of guilt, either in George’s death or Sybilla’s. Emily had never wanted to think there was; it was a necessity forced on her by Charlotte’s extraordinary account of the episode on the stairs. Now that was explained in a way better than she could have dreamed.
At the foot of the table, with its snowfield of a cloth and fine Georgian silver, but flowerless in spite of the blaze in the garden, the old woman sat, dour-faced, in black, her fish-blue eyes staring straight ahead of her. Presumably she had not been told either about Tassie’s intention of marrying the curate or of Eustace’s capitulation in allowing her, still less of his reason. And most assuredly she had not learned of Tassie’s midnight excursions. If she had, there would be far more in her present mood than a cold dislike and, perhaps, at the back of that chill expression and the petty angers, a suffocated fear. After all, it was someone in this house who had murdered twice. Even Lavinia March could not pretend to herself it was a foreign force invading her home; it was something within-a part of them.
But she seemed to remain alone in whatever mourning she suffered; it had not driven her to any softening of heart, any understanding of the fear in anyone else. Emily was aware somewhere in the back of her mind that that was perhaps the greatest tragedy of all, far beyond the need to receive pity-the inability to feel it. And yet she could not evoke in herself compassion for those who gave none themselves.
She would dearly have liked to believe the old woman responsible for murder, but she could think of no reason why she should be, nor any evidence whatsoever which suggested that she was. Mrs. March was the only one in the house whose guilt would cause Emily no unhappiness at all. She racked her brain to find anything to support it, and failed.
As if conscious of her thoughts, the old woman looked up from her plate and gazed at her icily. “I imagine after the funeral tomorrow you will be returning to your own house, Emily,” she said with lifted eyebrows. “Presumably the police will equally easily be able to find you there-although most else seems to be beyond them!”
“Yes, certainly I shall,” Emily answered tartly. “It is only for the convenience of the police that I have stayed here so long-and to show some family solidarity. There is no need for the rest of Society to know how little we find each other’s company agreeable, or seem able to offer each other any comfort.” She took a sip of her wine. “Although I don’t know why you think the police are unable to solve the murders.” She used the ugly word deliberately and was pleased to see the old woman wince with distaste. “They undoubtedly know a great deal that they have not chosen to tell you. They will hardly confide in us. After all, it is one of us whom they will arrest.”
“Really!” Eustace said angrily. “Remember yourself, Emily! That kind of remark is quite unnecessary.”
“Of course it is one of us, you fool!” the old woman snapped at him, her hand shaking so hard her wine slopped over the rim of her glass and ran down onto the cloth. “It is Emily herself, and if you do not know that you are the only one here who doesn’t!”
“You are talking nonsense, Grandmama.” William spoke for the first time since they had come into the dining room. In fact, as far as either Emily or Charlotte could recall, he had not spoken at breakfast either. He looked ghostlike, as if Sybilla’s death had taken all his own vitality as well. Charlotte had said earlier that she was afraid he might collapse at the funeral, so gaunt did he seem.
The old woman swung round on him, opening her mouth, but then she registered the expression on his face and closed it again.
“I, for one, don’t know that it was Emily,” he went on. “The motive of jealousy you credit to her might equally well do for me, although in fact it doesn’t. The affair was trivial at best, and over with anyway, which both Emily and I knew. You may not have, but then it was none of your business.” He stopped and took a sip from his glass of water; his voice was rough, as though his throat ached. “And the other motive you imagine for her, that of an infatuation with Jack; while quite believable-she would certainly not be his first conquest-”
“William!” Eustace shouted, banging his hand flat on the table to make as much noise as possible and sending the silver and crockery jumping. “This conversation is in the worst possible taste. We are all prepared to allow your grief some latitude, but this is beyond bearing!”
William stared back at him with burning contempt, his eyes brilliant, his mouth pinched with violent emotion long held in and hidden.
“Taste is a personal thing, Father. I find many of your conversations as ‘distasteful’ as anything I have ever said in my life. I frequently find your hypocrisy quite as obscene as all the vulgar picture postcards of naked women. They, at least, are honest.”
Eustace gasped, but was not quick enough to stem the tide of anger. He was aware of Charlotte next to him, because she had pushed out her foot under the table to kick him fairly sharply on the ankle. The ridiculous scene under Sybilla’s bed was not allowed to fade for a moment from his memory. He clenched his teeth and remained silent.
“But as a motive it is hardly worth murder,” William went on. “She could perfectly well have had Jack as well, if she had wanted him-and there is no evidence that she did. Whereas, on the contrary, if he had wanted her-or to be more accurate, George’s money, which she inherits-then he had an excellent reason for murdering George.”
Emily sat rigid, acutely aware of Jack Radley beside her, conscious that he had stiffened in his seat. But was it guilt, or embarrassment, or simply fear? Innocent people were hanged sometimes. Emily herself was afraid; why should not he be?
But William was not finished. “Personally,” he went on, “I favor Father. He had excellent reasons, which just in case he is innocent, I shall not discuss.”
There was total silence round the table, Vespasia set down her knife and fork, touching her napkin delicately to her mouth once and lying it aside. She looked at William and then down at the tablecloth, but she said nothing.
> Eustace was pale and Charlotte could see his fists were clenched in his lap. The veins stood out on his neck till she feared his collar would strangle him, but he also did not speak.
Tassie hid her face. Mrs. March was scarlet, but for some reason afraid to break the silence. Perhaps nothing she dared say was adequate to her outrage.
Jack Radley looked wretched and acutely embarrassed, the only time Charlotte had seen his composure completely shattered. Although she was perfectly aware how likely it was that he was guilty-not only of double murder but of the most callous abuse of a woman’s emotions, and that he had fully intended to abuse them further-still she liked him better for seeing him at a loss. It gave him a reality beneath the charming smile and the marvelous eyes.
Emily stared straight ahead of her.
In the end it was the footman with the next course who broke the silence, and the meal proceeded with a saddle of mutton no one tasted and a trivial conversation no one could have recalled a moment after it was spoken.
After the dessert Emily excused herself and retired to the rustic seat in the garden, not because it was a pleasant day-indeed it was overcast and seemed very likely to rain-but because she felt it her best chance of being alone, and there was no one whose company she desired.
Tomorrow was Sybilla’s funeral; she stayed because she wished to attend it. Now that Sybilla was dead, all Emily’s hatred of her had vanished. The ridiculous affair with George had receded to a far different proportion of importance. He had regretted it. He had been robbed of the chance to undo it, so she would wipe it out for him, cherishing all the other memories that were good. They had shared a great deal; if she allowed Sybilla to rob her of all those things, then she was a fool, and she deserved to lose them.
She had not seen Charlotte alone since Pitt called that morning, except for an instant as they came through the hall towards the dining room. But that had been enough to learn that he still had little idea who had murdered George, or why. Presumably it was the same person who had then killed Sybilla. She must have known something which the killer could not afford her ever to tell.
That did not exclude anyone. Sybilla was a clever and observant woman. She may have understood some word or act that had eluded the rest of them, or even been told something by George.
What could George have known? Emily sat hunched up in the damp, rising wind, pulling her shawl round her and raking through every possibility her mind could imagine, from the absurd to the horrific. At the end she was still left with Jack Radley, and her own clumsy complicity, or else William’s rather wild attempt to blame Eustace-and she was obliged to admit she believed that born more of hatred than sense.
She did not hear Jack Radley approach, and only when he was almost above her did she realize he was there. He was the last person she wanted to speak to at all, still less be alone with. She pulled her shawl even tighter round her and shivered.
“I was just thinking of going inside,” she said hastily. “It is not very pleasant. I wouldn’t be surprised if it rains.”
“It won’t rain yet.” He sat down beside her, refusing to accept dismissal. “But it is cold.” He slipped off his jacket and put it gently round her shoulders; it was still warm from his own body. She thought his hand lingered a moment longer than necessity required.
She opened her mouth to protest but did not, unsure that she would not be making herself ridiculous. After all, they were in clear view of the house, and she had no reason to wish herself back there. Luncheon had been ghastly, and no one would believe she wanted to pursue its conversations. And he had removed from her the excuse of being cold.
He interrupted her train of thought. “Emily, have the police any idea who killed George yet? Or were you just defying the old woman?”
Why was he asking? She wanted to be free to like him; she felt a happiness in his company like sunlight through a garden door at the end of a long passage. Yet she was terribly afraid it was deceptive.
“I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “I didn’t see Thomas this morning, and I only spoke to Charlotte for a moment as we came in to luncheon. I have no idea.” She forced herself to face him; it was just a fraction better than imagining his eyes.
His expression was full of concern. Was it for her or for himself?
“What did Eustace mean?” he said urgently. “Emily, for heaven’s sake think! I know it wasn’t me, and I refuse to believe it was you. It has to be one of them! Let me help you, please. Try to think. Tell me what William meant.”
Emily sat paralyzed. He looked so earnest, but he had lived by his charm for years; he was a superb actor when it was in his own interest. And this could be a matter of survival. If he had killed George they would hang him. The fact that she liked him did not cloud reason. Some extremely virtuous people could also be extremely boring, and admire them as one might, one shrank from their company. And the cruelest people could be very funny-until the essential ugliness snowed through.
He was still talking, his eyes on her face. Could she look at him and keep the balance to disbelieve? She had always had sense, far more sense than Charlotte. And she was a better actress, more skilled in masking her own feelings.
She met his gaze squarely. “I don’t know. I think he just hates Eustace and would like it to be him.”
“That leaves only old Mrs. March,” he said very quietly. “Unless you think it was Tassie, or Great-aunt Vespasia. Which you don’t.”
She knew what he was thinking now-it took only one step in reasoning, an inevitable step. It was Jack or Emily herself. She knew she had not murdered George and Sybilla, but she was growing increasingly afraid he had. Worse than that, she feared he still intended to court her.
He took her hands. He was not rough, but he was far stronger than she, and he did not mean to let go.
“Emily, for heaven’s sake think! There is something in the March family that we don’t know, something dangerous or shameful enough to cause murder, and if we don’t find out what it is, you or I may very well be hanged for it instead!”
Half of her wanted to scream at him to be quiet, but she knew it was true. Giving way to hysterics now would be stupid and destructive-perhaps even fatal. Charlotte had got nowhere, except to discover Tassie’s secret, which as it turned out was irrelevant. Emily would have to save herself. If Jack Radley were innocent, together they might discover something. If he were guilty and she played along with him, perhaps she would trick him into betraying something, however small. It could be survival.
“You are quite right,” she said seriously. “We must think. I shall tell you everything I know, then you will tell me. Between us we may finally deduce the truth.”
He smiled very slightly, not quite believing her.
She made an effort to deny the fear she felt-not only the great and overshadowing knowledge of danger from the law and the enduring judgment of Society, but the inner loneliness and the belying warmth he offered, which it would be so easy to accept. If only the poisonous suspicion in her mind could be crushed. She had to force herself to remember that he was still the most likely murderer. The thought hurt even more than she expected.
“Tassie goes out at night alone, to help deliver babies in the slums,” she said rather abruptly.
If she hoped to startle him she succeeded magnificently. He stared at her while emotions teemed across his face: incredulity, fear, admiration, and lastly, pure delight.
“That’s superb! But how in God’s name do you know?”
“Charlotte followed her.”
He cringed, letting his breath out between his teeth in a little hiss and shutting his eyes.
“I know,” she said quietly. “I expect Thomas was furious.”
“Furious!” his voice rose. “Isn’t that something of an understatement?”
Immediately she was defensive. “Well, if she hadn’t, we’d still be thinking it was Tassie! Charlotte saw her coming upstairs in the middle of the night with bloodstains on her hands and dress!
What else should she do? Let it remain a mystery? She knows I didn’t murder anyone-”
“Emily!” He caught her hands.
“-and if we don’t find who it is, I could be arrested and imprisoned-”
“Emily! Stop it!”
“-and tried, and hanged!” she finished harshly. She was shaking in spite of the closeness of him, and the strength of his hands holding hers. “People have been hanged wrongly before.” Memories, stories teemed in her mind. “Charlotte knows that, and so do I!” It was a relief to put it into words, to drag the real terror out of the darkness at the back of her mind and share it with him.
“I know,” he said quietly. “But it is not going to happen to you. Charlotte won’t let it-neither will I. It has to be someone in this house. Vespasia has the courage, if she thought such a thing were necessary. But she would never have killed George, and I don’t think she would have had the physical strength to kill Sybilla-not the way it was done. Sybilla was a young, healthy woman….” He hesitated, remembering.
“I know,” she said without pulling her hands away from him. “And Aunt Vespasia is not young, and not strong anymore.”
He smiled bleakly. “I wish I could think of a reason why old Mrs. March would have done it,” he said with feeling. “She’s twice Vespasia’s weight. She’d have the power.”
Emily looked at their locked hands. “But why would she?” she said hopelessly, anger and frustration welling up inside her. “There’d have to be a reason.”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Unless George knew something about her.”
“Like what?”
He shook his head. “Something about the Marches? She’s choked up with family pride. I’m damned if I know why. They’ve plenty of money, but no breeding at all. It comes from trade.” Then he laughed at himself. “Not that I wouldn’t be glad of a little of it! My mother was a de Bohun, traces her family back to the Conquest. But you can’t even buy a good meal with that, let alone run a house.”