Murder on the Serpentine

by Anne Perry

  She nodded obediently.

  “I mean it,” he said, more sharply than before.

  “Thomas, I’ve no more wish to get hurt than you do!” This time, it was he who nodded.

  —

  THE PARTY WAS VERY glamorous, and Charlotte went in one of her own gowns, plain dark blue but so exquisitely cut that it was remarkably flattering. It was easy to trim it with a variety of small additions: lace, a dash of something pale, or a silk flower. On this first occasion of wearing it, she chose just pearls. Even with his mind on so many other things, she saw Pitt’s eyes widen with appreciation. That was all she needed. Now she would find out everything she could about Delia Kendrick, and do it very carefully.

  She had known of the reception in the first place through Emily, and it was Emily who had obtained the necessary invitations for her. She saw her now standing close to Jack as if she was listening attentively to the conversation, but Charlotte knew she would also be thinking of the best way to introduce any subject that could lead to further discoveries.

  The first half hour was taken up with introductions and polite formalities, and she could see that Pitt was as bored as she was herself.

  “It’s all necessary,” she whispered to him in a quiet moment. “I’ve seen Felicia Whyte over there to our left. She won’t be here alone. Mr. Whyte will be with her.”

  “I can’t question him in front of other people,” Pitt replied. “In fact, I have no grounds to question him at all.”

  “Stop thinking like a policeman,” she told him under her breath. They were being approached by Somerset Carlisle. Emily must have asked him to come. “You are Special Branch,” Charlotte went on. “You don’t have the same rules. In fact, are you sure you have any rules at all?”

  Pitt had no time to answer because Carlisle was already there, with a smile that could have meant anything. He looked elegant and enigmatic, as usual.

  “Rules? Seriously, which rules are you thinking of keeping, Pitt?” He smiled. “Or breaking only reluctantly.”

  “Only the ones I get away with,” Pitt said. “I’m sure you are one of the best people at that. I’ve never known anyone who does it so frequently, and with such skill.” He smiled back at Carlisle with exactly the same mix of humor and pretense at gravity.

  “Are we still talking about Halberd’s death?” Carlisle inquired with a like tone of voice, as if he had been considering the weather.

  “Indirectly,” Pitt answered.

  “And directly, what else? Are you looking for proof that it was Delia Kendrick who killed him? I doubt you’ll find it.”

  “So do I,” Pitt agreed.

  “Ah, you don’t think she did!” Charlotte understood immediately.

  Pitt hesitated only a moment. “No, I don’t. I need to know who did, and why. More than that, I need to prove it.”

  Carlisle looked suddenly bleak. “Don’t worry, Pitt,” he said without a shred of humor now. “I won’t upset it for you.” He did not add any protestation of sincerity. He gave a brief smile, aimed at both Pitt and Charlotte, then moved away to speak to someone else.

  It was a little after that when Charlotte separated from Pitt and quite easily drifted into conversation with Lady Felicia, and then with Walter Whyte alone. They had already mentioned the fact that Alan Kendrick would have been here but for Delia’s death.

  “Poor man.” Charlotte tried to sound as if she meant it. “Not only has he lost his wife, but in such a terrible way. People can be so…so quick to judge. I blush when I think I disliked her, and allowed myself to show it.”

  Whyte looked at her with interest. “You are one of very few…”

  “I’m glad,” she said quickly.

  “No.” He shook his head. “I meant of the many who disliked her, for one reason or other. There were several, but you are the only one who regrets it, and is not busy exercising your imagination as to why she would have done such a thing. I don’t want to repeat their ideas.” He seemed to be looking at something far away, beyond this gracious room with its marble pilasters and painted ceiling. His face still kept some of the color of old sunburn, and his eyes were remarkably blue.

  Charlotte would like to have asked him about his adventures in Africa, but that would have to wait for another time.

  “I can imagine,” she said. “I have heard some of them. But I know from Lady Felicia that Delia had some very hard times. I believe she lost her first husband suddenly and very violently. I don’t know how she bore it, except that one has to.” She allowed her mind to consider how she would feel if Pitt were killed. Her throat was tight and she could hear the emotion in her voice.

  Walter Whyte was looking at her, a gentleness in his face. “It was a long time ago,” he told her as if trying to find some comfort himself. “And he was a difficult man. Elusive. I’m not sure how much she knew about him at the time.”

  “She learned after?” Charlotte did not have to pretend either interest or a degree of compassion. Not all knowledge is better than uncertainty, but certainly some is.

  “I’m not sure,” Whyte admitted. “He disappeared quite often, sometimes for a week or so.” He stopped abruptly.

  She waited, not sure if it was some remembered pain of his own or discretion that silenced him. It could even be regret that he had raised the subject at all. She wondered what had been so painful for Whyte: Was there a mistress? Or did he drink himself insensible, and wait to sober up before coming home? Possibly he spent days and nights out gambling when she had no idea where he was.

  The one thing Charlotte had not considered at all was what Whyte said next, very softly, a serious confidence not to be overheard.

  “I suppose it hardly matters now, poor devil. They’re both dead, but I want at least one person among the gossiping women to know the truth. He had some sympathy with a group of Irish rebels, but when their methods sickened him, he became a double agent.”

  Charlotte froze. It was as if the whole room had closed invisible doors on itself and she and Walter Whyte were utterly alone.

  “He worked for Victor Narraway,” he continued. “Appallingly dangerous stuff, trying to play both sides.” He took a long, deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “He either made a slip, or someone betrayed him. His death was not accidental; he was murdered. Quickly, skillfully, and unprovably.”

  Charlotte’s mind reeled first with grief for him, and for Delia and her baby; then she was drenched with fear for Pitt. It was irrational. He had never been a double agent; he was head of Special Branch. Everyone knew which side he was on. Then she was thinking of Delia, a new widow with a child to support, and her husband gone in one single act of violence.

  Thank heaven Victor Narraway had at least helped her financially. It was a matter of honor, and possibly acknowledgment of some sense of responsibility, if it had been he who had persuaded Roland Darnley to play both sides.

  Had Delia known that? Would she have accepted the money otherwise? How terrible for her that she could tell no one how or why Darnley had really died. Charlotte was not certain if she could have kept her silence all this time if she were so bereaved and had heard Pitt spoken of lightly, as such a wastrel.

  She shivered and shook her head as if to free herself from the thoughts. Walter Whyte was watching her. From the look in his eyes, he understood at least something of what she felt. No doubt he also knew that she would tell Pitt all that she had just learned.

  It occurred to her to wonder if she had elicited the information from him, or if he had created the opportunity to tell her, and if he hadn’t tonight, then would he have as soon as the chance lent itself. Might he even have sought out Pitt and told him? Possibly.

  The conversation moved to other things, and a few moments after that they were rejoined by Felicia and Somerset Carlisle.

  Had Carlisle anything to do with Walter Whyte’s sudden candor? Charlotte would probably never know, nor did it matter.

  —

  BUT THERE WAS CONSIDERABLY more, as
she and Emily discussed the following morning.

  “It’s still possible that Delia killed Halberd,” Emily pointed out. “I don’t believe she did, and if she didn’t, then she had no reason that we know of to kill herself. But how can we go about discovering who did? And if Thomas can’t do it, there’s no chance we can.” She sat in her usual comfortable chair in the boudoir, looking anything but comfortable.

  “No, we don’t need to know who did,” Charlotte argued. “Not if we can find where she was.”

  “Probably at home, and nobody but Kendrick can confirm that,” Emily pointed out. “And since he’s trying to blame her, or even if he isn’t, he has said that she was not in.”

  “Which means that she could not have sworn he was in,” Charlotte said emphatically. “Or that he wasn’t.”

  “Unless the servants saw him, and will swear to it.” Emily was taking up the position of devil’s advocate deliberately. The stakes were too important to believe something simply because they wished to.

  “Exactly.” Charlotte’s mind was racing at last.

  “You’re not going to ask them?” Emily was genuinely alarmed.

  “Yes, I am. We are,” she corrected herself. “Not if Kendrick was there, but to try to work out where Delia was. Her current lady’s maid will still be in the house, with any luck. Or if not there, then we will find out where she’s gone.”

  “She won’t have a new position yet. It’s been only days.”

  “Better still, we can promise to help her find a new position. Between us we must be able to exert enough influence to be of use,” Charlotte said. “Well, you can anyway. Or perhaps Lady Felicia?”

  “Delia may not have told anyone where she was going.” Emily put up a last argument.

  “Maybe not. That doesn’t mean the maid doesn’t know. And she will certainly know how Delia was dressed, whether her boots needed cleaning or not, if she got wet. Also, probably what hour she went out, then when she returned. Clothes can tell you a lot, if you know them well. And nobody knows them better than the person who has to clean and care for them.”

  “What are we going to tell this woman?”

  “The truth. That people are saying terrible things about Delia: that she was having a very ugly affair with John Halberd, and she actually killed him that night.” Charlotte was getting more and more convinced that their idea would work. “If Delia was anywhere near the Serpentine, the hem of her dress, not to say her boots, would show it. Maybe the maid would not testify to the police or the court, but if she can, she will help us learn where Delia was, if it will clear her lady’s name now.”

  “And if Kendrick finds out? We can hardly cross-question his servants without his knowledge, and we certainly won’t get his permission. We’ll have to be…inventive.” There was both doubt and hope in Emily’s face.

  Charlotte agreed that was a problem. “We might need help.”

  “Thomas won’t help with this…will he?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t intend to ask him, because it would involve his lying, which might compromise his position later. But Somerset Carlisle would do it in a moment…I think!”

  Emily gave a beaming smile. “Of course! Why didn’t I think of that? We will ask him immediately, and go as soon as he can arrange it.”

  It took a good deal of arranging, but Carlisle saw the point straightaway, although he required some persuasion and very definite restrictions before he would agree to come with them. He supplied both Charlotte and Emily with police whistles, or at least whistles that looked the same and sounded earsplittingly fierce when blown. Both of them had to swear they would use them if they felt in the least threatened.

  Charlotte appreciated that they were running a degree of risk, because if they were correct in their beliefs, Kendrick had killed both Halberd and Delia, and so far had got away with both murders. To deal with two women at once might be very much harder for him, but it would still be, at the very best, an embarrassment if they were caught.

  “Somerset is the one man who will be able to save us, even at risk to his reputation, or his life,” Charlotte said earnestly.

  “His reputation is beyond repair, but his life I care about very much,” Emily replied.

  Charlotte was not sure if she wanted to tell Emily that Carlisle was not coming unarmed to Kendrick’s house. He had a very small pistol, but at close quarters it would be quite deadly.

  “It could be terribly awkward,” Charlotte admitted. “We will just have to succeed. After all, we are only going to call on a lady’s maid and see if we can help her find a new position. I’m sure there is somebody we know—you know—who is looking for one.”

  It was nervousness that was making them talk. Charlotte had no intention at all of turning back. Of course, discovery would be, as she said, acutely awkward. But so would the inability to catch Alan Kendrick. Then Pitt would have failed the Queen. More important to Charlotte than that, he would have failed himself. She knew him well enough to have a good idea of what that would mean to him. This was not an ordinary case. Of course, he did not solve every case. Nobody did. Learning to accept defeat and not let it damage you was part of life, even for children. It was adults who sometimes forgot that.

  They arrived at the back door of Kendrick’s house a few moments after Somerset Carlisle had been admitted at the front. The scullery maid was reluctant to let them in, but Emily gave some rash promises she might later regret, and the woman who had been Delia’s lady’s maid came out of her own room and spoke to them in the housekeeper’s sitting room. She was younger than they had expected, in her twenties, and clearly profoundly shaken.

  Emily was very gentle. “You must be feeling quite ill,” she said sympathetically. “The sooner you can get away from this house of tragedy, the better. Once you are no longer needed here, you may certainly come and assist at Ashworth House, until you find a new place where a proper lady’s maid is required.”

  “But what can I do to…? I’m not a parlor maid,” the young woman stammered.

  “I’m sure you are excellent at laundry work, and can give my staff some help,” Emily said easily. “But first you need to recover yourself a bit. This is probably the most awful thing you will ever experience.”

  Charlotte was willing to stand back and leave it to Emily. She was merely reinforcement if one of Kendrick’s staff or Kendrick himself should come in. Still, this should be as quick as possible. Carlisle might be able to keep Kendrick’s attention only so long.

  Emily came to the point as soon as the young woman, whose name was Stella, had composed herself. Already her most practical anxiety had lifted. She had a temporary place to go. She would not have to return all the way to her parents in Devonshire, and then begin over again.

  Emily mentioned that there were cruel rumors circulating about Delia, no doubt born of envy, but nonetheless it was better that they put an end to them.

  The tears slid down Stella’s face. “I heard them,” she said wretchedly. “And I never thought as Miss Delia would do anything like that. Downright wicked, what some people will say. But she wasn’t here the night Sir John was killed. They neither of them was.”

  “Do you know where she went?” Emily asked, her voice gentle.

  “No, I don’t,” Stella admitted miserably. “But she wasn’t in the park. That I know ’cause it were wet, and her boots didn’t have any mud on them, nor leaves nor grass. Nor her skirt neither.”

  Charlotte smiled, then said, “Did she take her own carriage, or was wherever she went close enough to walk to? Or perhaps Mr. Kendrick took the carriage?”

  “No, he didn’t. He took a hansom,” said Stella. She looked frightened now. Perhaps the valet had told her that Kendrick’s boots had mud on them, and cut grass? Or she had seen them herself.

  “What did Mrs. Kendrick wear?” Emily asked quickly.

  “It was one of her more ordinary dresses,” Stella said.

  Charlotte could feel her stomach knotting. They were trespassing
beyond anything excusable to Pitt now. She might as well risk it all.

  “Do you know who she went to meet? If we could find the person she saw, they could clear her name of this terrible accusation. It is an awful thing when you cannot clear someone’s name because the accusation is all in hints and whispers, and the person you are talking about is not here to defend themselves.”

  “I know he’s a soldier, because she said so. His name is Joe Bentley. He is in one of them regiments named like electrics.”

  “Do you know his rank?” Emily asked.

  Stella shook her head. “He’s just young. He’s maybe a sergeant, or like that.”

  “Electrical?” Emily frowned. “But is he a fighting soldier?”

  “Fusiliers?” Charlotte asked.

  “That’s right, I think he knows a lot about weapons.” Stella’s face lit momentarily, then darkened. “It weren’t no affair. It was about something! I don’t want you to go saying she was having an affair with a man what was nearly young enough to be her son.”

  Charlotte put her hand on Stella’s arm. “We only want to be able to say we know where she was, and it had nothing whatever to do with Sir John Halberd’s death. And since she didn’t kill him, she wouldn’t have taken her own life in remorse for it. This Joe Bentley might have been the son of a friend, or maybe related to her son-in-law. There are all sorts of reasons that are no one else’s concern, but perfectly respectable.”

  Emily pulled a card out of her reticule and gave it to Stella.

  “When you are ready to move, please give the carriage driver this address. I should be ready to make you welcome, and my staff will see that you are given a room and sufficient duties for you to feel you are earning your way.”

  Charlotte stood up. “Thank you, Stella. You may have performed a last and most valuable service for your mistress.”

  Charlotte and Emily affected not to see the tears on Stella’s face. She did her best to smile as they made as dignified a departure as they could. They went out of the back door, thanking the footman, then in the street went to inform Carlisle’s coachman that they were getting themselves home.