by Anne Perry
“So wot’s the mystery?” she said. “ ’Ceptin’ ’oo killed ’im or why, an’ why did they leave ’im on the General’s doorstep.”
“Because he’s a decent soldier who served his Queen and country in a crack regiment, then, when he was wounded, came home and sold bootlaces in the street,” he replied. “And by night he’s a quarrelsome thief who picked the wrong house to burgle in Bedford Square.”
She swiveled around to look at him. “So yer got it all solved then?” she said with wide eyes.
“No, of course I haven’t,” he retorted rather sharply. He wished he could have presented her with some brilliant answer, maybe even before Pitt did. But all he had were pieces, and they did not make sense.
She remained staring at him. Her face softened.
He thought in her own way that she really was pretty, but with character; not all peaches and cream, with no taste.
“Some people said ’e was good an’ said ’e was a thief too?” she asked.
“No. Different people,” he answered. “Seems to have had two quite opposite sides to his life. But I don’t know why. It’s not as if he had any family, or any job where he had to impress people.”
“Oh!” She whisked around as the fat in the pan sputtered loudly. She pushed the onions around with a spoon, then stirred the cabbage in with the mashed potato and spooned the whole lot into the skillet. While it was heating and browning nicely, she carved three generous pieces off the cold mutton joint and set them on one of the blue-and-white kitchen plates. She put out a knife and fork for him, then made the tea and fetched him a mug, and then brought the jug of milk back from the larder as she returned the mutton.
When it was all ready she served it up and put it in front of him, tea steaming gently in the mug. He had not meant to smile, but he found himself almost grinning. He tried to change his expression to something less enthusiastic-and less obvious.
“Thank you,” he said, lowering his eyes from hers. “Very civil of you.”
“Yer welcome, I’m sure, Mr. Tellman,” she answered, pouring herself a mug of tea and sitting opposite him. Then she remembered her apron and shot to her feet to remove it before sitting down again, this time a little more daintily. “So ’oo did yer get all this information from, then? I’d better tell Mr. Pitt proper, not just bits an’ pieces.”
Trying not to talk with his mouth full, he recounted to her all the contradictory facts and opinions he had learned over the last two days. He considered suggesting she should write it down not to forget it, but he was not totally sure she could write. He knew Mrs. Pitt had taught her to read, but writing was another thing, and he did not want to embarrass her.
“Will you remember all that?” he asked. The bubble and squeak was the best he had ever had. He had eaten rather too much.
“ ’Course I will,” she replied with great dignity. “I got a perfick memory. ’Ave ter ’ave. Only just learned to write since I come ’ere.”
He felt slightly abashed. He really should leave. He would rather Pitt did not come home and find him here with his feet under the table having eaten a thoroughly good meal. The whole room was extraordinarily comfortable, the clean smell of it, the warmth, the kettle singing faintly on the hob, Gracie with a flush on her face and her eyes bright.
It was not only Albert Cole’s life which was confusing, it was sitting here having reported to Gracie as if she were his superior, at the same time being waited upon and spoiled and made welcome.
“I’ve got to go,” he said reluctantly, pushing his chair back. “Tell Mr. Pitt I’m following up on Cole. If he used to quarrel over the spoils of his thieving, that may be what happened to him. I’ve got to find out who he worked with.”
“I’ll tell him,” she promised. “Mebbe that is wot ’appened Makes more sense’n anythin’ else.”
“Thank you for supper.”
“S’only bubble an’ squeak.”
“It was very good.”
“Yer welcome.”
“Good night, Gracie.”
“Good night, Mr. Tellman.”
That sounded so formal. Should he tell her his name was Samuel? No. Don’t be absurd! She did not care what his name was. She had been in love with that Irish servant in Ashworth Hall. Anyway, they disagreed about everything that mattered-society, politics, justice, a man’s rights and obligations in the world. She was perfectly happy being a servant, and he deplored the entire concept as beneath the dignity of any human being.
He marched over to the door.
“Your bootlace is undone,” she commented helpfully
He was obliged to bend down and retie it, or risk tripping over his own feet as he went down the hall.
“Thank you,” he mumbled furiously.
“S’all right,” she answered. “I’ll see yer ter the front door. Only manners. It’s what Mrs. Pitt would do.”
He stood upright and stared at her.
She smiled at him brightly.
He turned and went down the hall to the door, her light, quick steps after him.
5
Charlotte knew that Gracie had had something to report to Pitt from Tellman’s visit the previous evening, but it was one of those mornings when nothing seemed to be straightforward, and she was not in the kitchen at the time, at least only dashing in and out. The day before had been mild and sunny, but now the wind had a sharp edge and it was threatening rain. The clothes she had put out for Jemima to go to school in were now not warm enough. Jemima was very serious and did not complain about her pinafore as usual. That meant something else was worrying her, which was more urgent.
It took patient and careful questioning to elicit exactly what the difficulty was, and the answer, most solemnly given, reminded Charlotte how intensely important social questions were even at the age of nine. The precise way of dealing with a matter of accepting favors from the acknowledged leader of the twenty or so little girls in the classroom was a matter of great consequence. Debts were incurred and must be lived up to. Refusals must be explained without offense or one would be placed outside the magic circle of those who were favored.
She treated the problem with appropriate gravity. She had not gone to school herself. Having two sisters, she was taught by a governess in the classroom at home. But the principles were the same as in adult society, and sometimes the pattern of hierarchy lasted as long. Certainly the wounds of exclusion were as deep.
All of which meant that Daniel, two years younger, felt that something of importance was going on and he was not part of it. He knocked and banged around, dropping things and making loud comments, ostensibly to himself but really to take Charlotte’s attention.
So when she had finished with Jemima she decided she would walk to school with Daniel, instead of sending Gracie. The result was that by the time she had returned, dealt with the laundry, decided exactly how much longer the socks would last, which shirts needed their collars and cuffs turned (a job she hated), it was late morning when she sat down at the kitchen table for a cup of tea and Gracie told her what Tellman had said about Albert Cole’s strange, contradictory character.
“You did very well,” she said sincerely.
“I give ’im dinner, jus’ cold mutton an’ bubble an’ squeak. I ’ope that’s all right?” Gracie answered, blushing with satisfaction.
“Of course it’s all right,” Charlotte assured her. “In return for information, he can have the best food in the house. I’d even buy in for him.” She thought privately that the food was incidental; it was Gracie’s company which brought him. She had seen the slight flush in his face, the way, in spite of all his intentions to the contrary, his eyes softened when he looked at her. Above all, she had felt for his awkwardness and his grief for Gracie when she had had to face the loss of her dreams in Ashworth Hall.
But she did not say so. It would embarrass Gracie and perhaps make her feel as if her most personal affairs were the subject of other people’s thoughts and plans.
“That i
n’t necessary,” Gracie dismissed it. “Give ’im airs above ’is station. Jus’ so’s it’s all right ter give ’im suffink.”
“Most certainly. Use your own judgment.” What Tellman had said about Cole weighed heavily on Charlotte’s mind. She believed Balantyne, both as to his innocence of the original cowardice in Abyssinia, and certainly of the murder of Cole, but the more she learned the less chance did she see of proving it. So far she had not told Pitt about the blackmail, but it would strain her conscience to withhold it a great deal longer, and he must surely already have considered the possibility, in view of Cornwallis’s similar plight.
She needed to be able to discuss it with someone whom she could trust absolutely, not only for her discretion but also for an understanding of the sort of men both Cornwallis and Balantyne were, and of the world in which they moved. Great-Aunt Vespasia was perfect in both respects. She was in her mid-eighties, of an unassailable position in society, and in her day had been the most beautiful woman in London, if not in England. She had excellent judgment of people, and as sharp a tongue to express it as Charlotte had ever known, coupled with the wit to do so with very little unkindness. She also had the courage to follow her own conscience and to fight for the causes she believed in, regardless of other people’s tastes. Charlotte had never liked anyone more.
“I shall go and visit Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould,” she announced to Gracie as she stood up from the table. “I think we need her view of this matter.”
“She couldn’t know about the likes o’ Albert Cole, ma’am,” Gracie said with surprise. “At ’is best ’e were an ordinary soldier, an’ from what Mr. Tellman says, ’e were a thief. Looks like ’e fell out wif ’is mate over wot they took, an’ ’e came orff worst. Mr. Pitt said as ’e looked like ’e bin in a fight.”
Charlotte felt considerably comforted by that thought. It did seem to make sense. However, it still left the uneasy knowledge that he had had the snuffbox.
“Mebbe more was took,” Gracie went on, as if sensing Charlotte’s thoughts. She stood by the sink with the dishcloth in her hand. “An’ the other feller ’as ’em. ’e just missed the box ’cos ’e were in an ’urry. P’raps the lamplighter were comin’, an’ ’e scarpered?”
“Yes, perhaps,” Charlotte agreed. She could not tell Gracie, or anyone, that Balantyne had given the box to the blackmailer. Did that make Cole the blackmailer, or not? Or his messenger? Or had he stolen it from the blackmailer … by an extraordinary chance? “I still think I shall go and see Lady Vespasia,” she stated. “I shall probably take luncheon out.”
Gracie looked at her keenly, but she made no remark other than to acknowledge that she had heard.
Charlotte went upstairs and took several minutes to select an appropriate gown. On past occasions when she had needed to look more glamorous or impressive than her own very limited wardrobe allowed, she had been given clothes by Aunt Vespasia: dresses and sometimes capes or hats which she no longer used. Vespasia’s maid had altered them to fit Charlotte’s rather fuller figure, and changed the style a little, usually bringing it both up-to-date and making it a trifle more practical and less formal than it had been when Vespasia had worn it. Vespasia had always loved clothes and had every intention of leading fashion, not following it.
The only problem was that Vespasia was in her eighties, a trifle thin; her hair was silver and her tastes extravagant, to go with her station in life. Charlotte was in her thirties and dark with a rich tint of chestnut in her hair, her skin a warm honey tone. Some adjustments needed to be made.
She chose a pale blue muslin. It had gorgeous sleeves, a very slight bustle gathered from an overskirt of green which took from it the delicacy which on her looked not sophisticated, as it had on Vespasia, but rather insipid. She had a pale blue hat, which complemented the gown. She was reasonably satisfied with the result, and left at a quarter to twelve. The only way to travel dressed like this was by hansom-unless, of course, one had one’s own carriage.
She arrived at Vespasia’s house shortly after noon, and was admitted by the maid, who by now knew her very well.
Vespasia was sitting in her favorite room, opening onto the garden. She was dressed in her favorite ivory lace gown with ropes of soft, gleaming pearls. The sunlight made a pool around her, and her black-and-white dog was lying on the floor beside her feet. It rose and greeted Charlotte with enthusiasm. Vespasia remained where she was, but her face lit with pleasure.
“How nice to see you, my dear. I was rather hoping you would come. I am bored to weeping with the season this year. There doesn’t seem to be anybody with the slightest flair for the unpredictable. Everyone says and does precisely what I expect them to.” She moved one shoulder in elegant dismissal. “They even wear what I expect. It is very fashionable, but of no interest whatever. It is frightening. I begin to fear I am growing old. I seem to know everything … and I hate it!” She raised her eyebrows. “What is the point in being alive if you are never taken completely by surprise, all your ideas scattered like leaves before a gale, and you have to pick them up and put them together again and find the picture is new and different? If you are not capable of passion or surprise, you really are dead.”
She surveyed Charlotte critically, but with affection.
“Well, you are wearing something I had not predicted. Where on earth did you get that gown?”
“It is one of yours, Aunt Vespasia.” Charlotte leaned over and kissed her delicately on the cheek.
Vespasia’s eyebrows rose even higher.
“Good heavens! Please be good enough not to tell anyone. I should be mortified.”
Charlotte did not know whether to be hurt or to laugh. She wanted to do both. “Is it really so awful?”
Vespasia waved her to stand back a little, and regarded the gown critically for several moments.
“The pale blue doesn’t suit me,” Charlotte explained. It was the addition of the green which seemed to be the focus of Vespasia’s displeasure.
“It would if you added cream,” Vespasia replied. “That green is far too heavy. You look as if you had fallen into the sea and come out covered in weed!”
“Oh! A sort of drowned look-like the Lady of Shalott?” Charlotte asked.
“Not quite as peaceful,” Vespasia said dryly. “Don’t tempt me to go further. Let me take that and find you something better.” She rose to her feet, leaning a little on her silver-topped cane, and led the way upstairs to her dressing room. Charlotte followed obediently.
It was while Vespasia was looking through various swathes and shawls and other accessories that she said quite casually, “I suppose you are concerned about that peculiarly unfortunate matter in Bedford Square? As I recall, you were fond of Brandon Balantyne.”
Charlotte found herself blushing quite hotly. That was not at all the way she would have phrased it. She looked at Vespasia’s elegant back as she fingered a piece of silvery cream silk and considered its suitability. If Charlotte were to argue over Vespasia’s choice of words she would only draw attention to her self-consciousness. She took a deep breath.
“I am upset about it, yes. I went to see him. Please don’t tell Thomas; he doesn’t know. I … I went on impulse, without thinking about it, except that I wanted him to have some … sense of friendship …” She faltered to a stop.
Vespasia turned around holding the cream silk. It was soft as gauze, faintly shimmering. “This will lighten it,” she said with decision. “This piece as a fichu, and this around the bustle and down the front. It will warm the whole effect. Of course you went to see him because you care for him, and you wanted him to know that that was not changed by this new circumstance.” Her face become more grave, touched with a gentleness. “How was he?” She looked very carefully at Charlotte, and her own perception of distress became deeper as she read Charlotte’s feelings. “Not well …”
“He is being blackmailed,” Charlotte replied, surprised how sharply it troubled her to say so, as if she were learning it for the
first time herself. “Over something he did not do, but he cannot prove it.”
Vespasia remained without speaking for several moments, but it was transparent in her face that it was the silence of thought, not of indifference or a failure of understanding.
Charlotte had a sudden, chill feeling that Vespasia knew or guessed something which she herself did not. She waited with a tightening of her throat.
“For money?” Vespasia said, almost as if she did not expect an answer in the affirmative.
“Not for anything,” Charlotte replied. “Just … just to show that the blackmailer has the power, so far …”
“I see.” Vespasia draped the silk over Charlotte’s gown and tied it expertly. She fiddled with it, pulling it here and there, rearranging it, but her fingers moved absentmindedly. “There,” she said when she had finished. “Do you care for that more?”
Charlotte surveyed herself in the glass. It was a great deal better, but that was hardly important.
“Yes, thank you.” She turned. “Aunt Vespasia …”
But Vespasia was already walking away towards the landing and the stairs down. She held the banister to steady herself, something she would not have done a year or two before. Charlotte had an acute sense of her fragility, and painful knowledge of how much she loved her. She wanted to say so, but it might be overfamiliar; after all, they were not really related. And this was not the time.
At the bottom of the stairs in the hall, Vespasia started back towards the morning room, now full of sunlight.
“I have a friend,” she said thoughtfully. “Mr. Justice Dunraithe White.”
Charlotte caught up with her and they went into the pale, bright room. There were early white roses in the green bowl on the center table, and the sun through the leaves outside made shifting patterns on the carpet.
“Theloneus tells me he has made some very … odd … decisions lately, quite out of the character he has hitherto shown. He has delivered opinions which at the very kindest could be described as eccentric.” Theloneus Quade was also a judge, and a longtime admirer of Vespasia. Twenty years before he had been deeply in love with her, and would have married her had she accepted him, but she had felt the difference in their ages to be too great. He was still in love, but now it was also a deeper friendship.