Farriers' Lane

by Anne Perry

  Charlotte was confused. She had assumed Clio’s relationship with Judge Oswyn was casual and social, but from the candor with which she apparently spoke to him about the most indiscreet subjects, perhaps it was much more. Was she his mistress? It would be inexcusably clumsy to ask. How could she phrase her questions so as to elicit the information and yet remain reasonably tactful?

  “You think he would have discussed it differently had it not troubled him?” she said aloud.

  “I am quite sure,” Clio replied with a smile. “He is a very frank and gentle man. He likes to be open, to speak freely, to laugh about things, not unkindly, but to”—she shrugged slightly, an elegant and expressive gesture—“to be with friends. You know, friendship is rarer than one would care to think, especially for a man in his position.”

  “And he had not that friendship with Judge Stafford?”

  “No—I think not. I formed the impression there was some matter between them which Judge Stafford kept pressing, and which Granville did not wish to discuss anymore.”

  “Aaron Godman?”

  Clio frowned. “I am not certain. I know Granville was unhappy about it, and hated to speak of it. The trial was perfectly proper, of course, but he felt it had been poorly handled. It was a source of embarrassment to him.”

  “By Judge Quade?” Charlotte said with surprise.

  Clio shook her head quickly. “Oh no—not at all. By the police, I think. I am redly not sure. He would not discuss it with me. But then that is quite natural, since I knew Aaron, and cared for him very much. He was a very sweet man.”

  “Was he? No one has said very much about him, personally, only about the case. Tell me about him,” Charlotte asked.

  Clio lowered her voice even more, so Tamar, a few feet away, could not hear her.

  “He was two years younger than Tamar—twenty-eight—when he died five years ago.” Her face had a curious expression of sweetness mixed with pain. “He was slight, like her, but not really so dark, and of course a lot taller. In fact he was not so unlike Joshua. They used that, sometimes, on stage. He had a lovely sense of humor. He loved to play the most terrible villains and provoke the audience to scream.” She smiled as she said it, then her eyes quite suddenly filled with tears and she sniffed hard and turned her head away for a moment.

  “I’m sorry,” Charlotte said quietly. “Please don’t go on if it is painful. It was thoughtless of me to ask. It is Devlin O’Neil we have to know about.”

  Clio sniffed again. “That is really too bad of me,” she said fiercely. “I thought I had better control of myself. Please forgive me. Yes, of course. I shall arrange for you to meet Kathleen O’Neil.” She fished for a handkerchief. “I know just how I shall do it. She is very fond of romantic music, and there is a soiree the day after tomorrow, at Lady Blenkinsop’s house in Eaton Square. I know the pianist well, and he will invite us. Can you come?”

  Charlotte considered asking if Clio were sure it would be socially acceptable, and then decided she really did not care if it were or not.

  “Certainly,” she said firmly. “I shall enjoy it. Tell me who I am supposed to be. I cannot be myself, or they will tell me nothing. In fact they will probably ask me to leave.”

  “Of course,” Clio agreed cheerfully. “You had better be a cousin visiting from—from Bath!”

  “But I don’t know Bath,” Charlotte argued. “I would look ridiculous if I fell into conversation with someone who knew it well. Let it be Brighton; at least I have been there.”

  “By all means.” Clio smiled and stuffed her handkerchief away. “Then it is arranged? If you come here first, we can travel together. I shall say you are up visiting because you are interested in the stage. Can you sing?”

  “No. Not at all!”

  “Well, you can certainly act! At least your mother says so. She has recounted some of your adventures to Joshua, just two or three days ago, and he told us. We were all very entertained—oh, and impressed, of course.”

  “Oh dear.” Charlotte was taken aback. She knew Caroline disapproved of her involvement in Pitt’s cases. How much she had changed, at least on the surface, if she was now regaling her new friends with accounts of them. How much she was denying her previous self in order to please. That was a most uncomfortable thought, and she pushed it away. There was no time for it now.

  “I think it is quite thrilling,” Clio went on enthusiastically. “More dramatic than anything we do—because it is real. Remember not to dress too fashionably, won’t you? You are supposed to be a provincial cousin.”

  “Oh, certainly,” Charlotte said with a perfectly straight face. What did Clio Farber imagine policemen earned, that their wives might dress in the current vogue?

  In the event, without Emily to borrow from, and not daring to approach Vespasia for anything less than a reception or a ball, Charlotte asked Caroline if she might try something of hers from last season, or even the one before. Her request was granted with alacrity, and considerable disappointment that it was really not advisable for her to go also. But it would risk being conspicuous for three of them to turn up to such a function, and Kathleen O’Neil would not find it the chance encounter it was intended to seem.

  But she did not refuse the offer of Caroline’s carriage to pick her up at home in Bloomsbury.

  She left a note for Pitt on the kitchen table.

  Dearest Thomas,

  I have been invited to a soiree with a friend of Mama’s and I am going because I am a little anxious about her lately. She is becoming very fond of people I do not know at all, and this will give me an excellent opportunity to make their acquaintance rather better. I shall not be late, it is only an hour or two of music.

  Your dinner is in the oven, mutton stew with potatoes and plenty of onion.

  I love you,

  Charlotte

  She went first to Pimlico to collect Clio Farber. They arrived at Eaton Square, alighting in a swirl of nervous laughter, and climbed the wide steps up to a most imposing doorway flanked by liveried footmen who enquired for their names.

  Clio took charge, informing them that she was a friend of the soloist who was to perform for their guests’ enjoyment, and was accompanied by her cousin. The footman hesitated for a moment, glanced across at his colleague, then inclined his head graciously and allowed them in.

  The hallway was most impressive, flagged in black-and-white marble like a chessboard. There was a large statue of a youth after the Greek style in an alcove near the foot of the stairs, which swept up in an arc to the landing and the balustrade which bordered a gallery along half its length.

  It was already filled with people all most elegantly dressed, the women in gowns glitteringly embroidered, lots of bare shoulders gleaming in the light from the chandeliers.

  “You didn’t tell me it was going to be so formal,” Charlotte whispered to Clio. Already she was feeling not only like a provincial cousin but a very poor one, positively from the woods. She had thought Caroline’s gown quite becoming when she put it on at home, but now it was not only two seasons out of date, it seemed very unimaginative and pedestrian. The deep brandy shade was far too conservative. She must look fifty in it.

  “To tell you the truth, I didn’t know it was going to be,” Clio whispered back. “Reggie said it was just a score or so of friends. They must have enlarged it since then. Still, that will make it easier to run into Kathleen without being so obvious. Come on. This is an adventure.”

  Charlotte had rather more experience of adventures, and knew they could very easily become unpleasant if taken too casually. Nevertheless she followed Clio into the huge withdrawing room where sixty or so seats were arranged artistically in groups so people might hold intelligent and uplifting conversations with each other between the musical items.

  For several minutes Charlotte and Clio moved around the edge of the throng of people, trying to appear as if they were looking for someone. Clio introduced Charlotte to her friend Reggie, who was standing gracefully i
n the region of the piano, ready to play when the signal should be given and the hostess introduced him.

  They were conversing amiably and perhaps from nervousness. They told of one or two amusing recollections. Charlotte burst into laughter, and Clio put both her hands up to her face to stifle a giggle. Several people glanced at them with severe disapproval. One aristocratic young woman stared over her fan, flicking it noisily.

  “Who are those persons?” she asked her neighbor in a penetrating voice. “I don’t believe I know the person in the pink gown. Do you?”

  “Certainly not,” the neighbor replied with a sniff. “Whatever made you suppose I might know her? Really, Mildred. I don’t know anyone who dresses like that.”

  “Oh, you mean the brown? Yes, extraordinary, isn’t it. I swear Jane Digby-Jones had something like that—two years ago.”

  Charlotte was aching to retaliate. She looked at Clio and saw the tide of color up her cheeks.

  “Who is the lady with the loud voice?” she asked, smiling at the pianist, her own voice carrying at least the distance between them. “The one with the crystal necklace.” She knew perfectly well it was diamonds, and heard the gasp of outrage with satisfaction.

  “A Miss Cartwright, I think,” the pianist replied, trying to keep his face straight. “Or maybe it is Wheelright?”

  “Waggoner,” Clio corrected with a smile.

  “Something like that,” Reggie agreed. “To do with transport of some sort. Why?”

  “Why?” Charlotte was confused.

  “Why do you ask? Would you care to know her dressmaker?”

  “No!” It was a squeak. “I mean, no, thank you,” she amended. “Really—we must …”

  “Of course. The matter is in hand,” Clio agreed. “I’m so sorry.” She linked her arm in Charlotte’s and together they walked past Miss Waggoner with dazzling smiles. They continued on through the crowd until Clio stopped next to a young woman with fair hair swept up stylishly and a most individual face, high cheekbones and brown eyes.

  “Good evening, Kathleen,” Clio said, affecting great surprise. “How very nice to see you again. You look so very well. May I introduce my dear friend Charlotte? Actually she is a sort of cousin, come up to stay with us for a while. I was sure this would be the most excellent evening for her, and now doubly so for the chance of meeting with you. It seems such a long time. How are you?”

  Kathleen O’Neil had little alternative but to accept the introduction so ingenuously required, but she showed no disinclination.

  “How do you do.” She could not add Charlotte’s name because Clio had not supplied it, presumably a deliberate omission to avoid lying. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance. I hope you are enjoying your stay. Have you come far?”

  “Oh, not very,” Charlotte said, swallowing her guilt and dismissing it. “I am sure I shall have a most interesting and enjoyable time. It is kind of you. I imagine you are used to an evening like this, but it is quite a treat for me.”

  “Indeed?” Kathleen was saved from having to find anything else to say by the arrival of a man Charlotte knew immediately must be Devlin O’Neil. He was very dark, with the cast of features filled with humor and a certain fey imagination which she had seen only in Irishmen. He was not strictly handsome, there was something uncertain in his face, possibly a weakness but more probably only ambivalence. But he was confident and full of charm. He responded warmly to Clio’s greeting and the introduction to Charlotte.

  “How delightful to see you again.” He smiled at Clio. “It has been far too long. We have met the stuffiest people lately.” He put his arm around his wife proprietorially and stood close to her. “Forgive me, my dear?” He pulled a very slight face and glanced around them. Indeed, his comment was easy to understand. The company was unusually proper, even for such an event.

  Charlotte plunged in. She must at least attempt some detecting. She was not here to be entertained merely by social observation to no purpose.

  “Are you here more by duty than inclination, Mr. O’Neil?” she said sweetly.

  He smiled back at her. “Entirely by duty, ma’am. To accompany my father-in-law and his mama. She is fond of amateur musical evenings—at least she is fond of being seen by those who frequent them. And of catching up with events.”

  “But of course,” Charlotte agreed quickly. “There is nothing so interesting as gossip if you know the people spoken of and have someone to whom you can repeat it who will appreciate all its nuances to the full.”

  “My goodness, you have no fear in speaking your mind,” he said with a sharp light of amusement in his eyes.

  Two young women passed by them, glancing at O’Neil over their fans and swishing skirts with ostentatious grace.

  “Do you not find it so, Mrs. O’Neil?” Charlotte turned to Kathleen.

  Kathleen smiled, but it was the guarded gesture of one who had been wounded by precisely such thoughtless acts. “I confess it interests me only occasionally. I find people can be most malicious at times.”

  Charlotte wondered if quite suddenly in the midst of all the inconsequential chatter she had heard a word of true emotion. She was reminded sharply that here was a woman whose husband had been murdered, after having an affair with someone else. It said a great deal for Kathleen O’Neil that she could continue a friendship with Clio Farber, a woman so close to the cause of such misery: not only another actress, but a friend and colleague of Tamar Macaulay herself. Charlotte felt a surge of admiration for her, and a dislike for her own role of one seeking to place the guilt on the shoulders of her second husband. The duplicity alone was offensive, and the fun she had felt for a moment fled out of it.

  “Of course,” she said with instant sobriety. “When it is hurtful it is quite a different matter. I suppose a great deal of it is. A lot of people are ill informed, and their remarks better not made. I was thinking only of trivia, and perhaps I spoke too lightly anyway.” She accepted a glass of lemonade from a passing footman, as did the others.

  “Oh no, it is I who should apologize,” Kathleen said, blushing a little. “I did not mean to be so contrary. It is only that I am acquainted with people who have been hurt by unthinking repetition of matters which were not fully true, or were of a deeply private nature. And of course those are the things gossips delight in most.”

  Around the room there was a murmur of expectation, and then a lessening of sound. Apparently something was about to begin. Instinctively they turned towards the piano, where a large lady with a gown winking with beads at the bosom was attempting to command attention.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she began. There was a murmur of polite applause. The evening’s entertainment had commenced. Charlotte smiled at Kathleen and deliberately took a seat beside her, aware of Clio’s eyes on her, and then her head turning away as she engaged Devlin O’Neil in whispered conversation.

  The pianist began to play, without flourish or more than a single glance at his audience. He seemed to be rapt in his music and to be conjuring it out of his instrument solely for his own enjoyment. Or perhaps enjoyment was the wrong word. Watching him, Charlotte felt as if it were a necessity for him, more of a sustenance to his soul than the dainty sandwiches and pastries were to the bodies of his assembled listeners. She was not highly educated in music, but she did not need an experienced critic to tell her that this young man was excellent, far beyond the ability of his fashionable audience to appreciate.

  When he finished his final piece before the interval there was a courteous applause. He rose, took a very slight bow—no more than was necessary to acknowledge their presence—and left, walking with long strides under the archway into the room beyond.

  The silence filled with chatter again, and pretty maids in white caps and lace-trimmed aprons came around with trays of sweetmeats, and liveried footmen came with chilled champagne. Charlotte did not care in the slightest for either, but she accepted automatically because it was easier than the constant refusal. She was too full of th
e glory of the music to wish to make a comment which could not possibly do it justice.

  “Very good, don’t you think?” Devlin O’Neil said, almost at her elbow. She had not heard him approach. He was smiling again. She judged it an expression which came to him very readily, out of a great good nature and an expectancy of being liked, rather than any particular pleasure.

  “Brilliant,” she replied, hoping she did not sound gushing.

  Before he could reply to her, they were joined by a large thick-chested man with the appearance of unusual strength. His face was remarkable, with a great hatchet nose and small, very bright, intelligent eyes. On his arm, clinging to him for actual physical support, as well as a certain air of possession, was a woman a generation older. A facial resemblance about the eyes and brow made it instantly apparent she must be his mother.

  “Oh, Grandmama-in-law,” Devlin O’Neil said, his smile broadening. “Did you enjoy the music? May I present to you …” He hesitated, realizing for the first time that he did not know Charlotte’s full name. He overcame the inconvenience by glancing at Clio and introducing her first. It was so smooth that if Adah Harrimore noticed, she gave no sign of it.

  “How do you do, Miss Farber.” She inclined her head graciously, but there was no interest in her face. “How do you do, Miss Pitt,” she added, when Clio had supplied the missing name. Charlotte did not bother to correct the title (something she would normally have leaped to do), but any possible connection with Thomas was to be avoided.

  “How do you do, Mrs. Harrimore,” she replied, regarding the old lady curiously. She had a remarkable countenance, powerful, and yet with a knowledge of fear, a guardedness about it that was at the same time belied by its boldness. There was iron will in it, and yet also anxiety, a looking for reassurance to her son. It was full of contradictions.