by Anne Perry
“For goodness’ sake,” Charlotte sighed, taking Millie bodily and pushing her into a chair. “Now what has happened? Were you outside on an errand? Or in the areaway?”
“Oh no, Miss Charlotte!” she looked quite surprised.
“Well, what is it then? Where were you?”
“Upstairs in my room, Miss. Oh, Mrs. Dunphy told me I could go!”
Charlotte stepped back; she was confused herself. She had been sure Millie’s pale demeanor had something to do with the hangman. Now it seemed it had not.
“So what’s wrong, Millie? Are you sick?”
“No, Miss,” Millie stared down at her hands, still twisting in her lap. Charlotte followed her eyes, and realized for the first time that she was holding something.
“What have you got, Millie?”
“Oh,” Millie’s eyes filled with tears. “I wouldn’t have brought it Miss, but I was afraid for my name!” She sniffed violently. “I’m so glad it’s you, Miss.” She began to cry with quiet hopelessness.
Charlotte was puzzled; she was not only sorry for Millie, but a little frightened herself.
“What is it, Millie?” She put out her hand. “Give it to me.”
Slowly Millie’s white little fingers uncurled to show a crumpled man’s necktie. It meant nothing at all to Charlotte. She could not see any reason why Millie had brought it to her, or why it should inspire any feeling whatever, let alone the paralyzing terror that so obviously had stricken Millie.
Charlotte took it and held it up. Millie stared at her with enormous eyes.
“It’s a necktie,” Charlotte said blankly. “What’s the matter with it?” Then another thought came to her. “Millie, you didn’t think anyone was strangled with a necktie, did you?” She felt relief sweep through her, almost weakening her knees. She wanted to laugh. “It wasn’t a necktie, Millie! It was a garotting wire. Nothing like this! Take it away, and have Maddock attend to it. It’s filthy!”
“Yes, Miss Charlotte,” but Millie didn’t move. The fear still held her white and motionless.
“Go on, Millie!”
“It’s Mr. Dominic’s, Miss Charlotte. I know, because I collect the laundry. The master’s are made of a different stuff. You can always tell them apart. When I take the laundry back I only have to look, and I know whose it is.”
Charlotte felt the sick fear come back, though it was without reason. Why should it matter that Dominic had lost a tie?
“So it’s Mr. Dominic’s,” she said with a quick swallow. “It’s filthy. Take it back to the laundry.”
Millie stood up very slowly, gripping the tie hard, mangling it in her hands.
“It’s nothing to do with me, Miss Charlotte; I swear it isn’t. As God is my judge, Miss, I swear it!” She was shaking with the passion of her fear and her need to be believed.
Charlotte could no longer avoid it. Her stomach felt hard and cold inside her. There could be only one question that mattered. She asked it.
“Where did you find it, Millie?”
“In my bedroom, Miss.” Her face flushed painfully. “It was under the bed. When I turned the mattress it fell from round the bedstead onto the floor, Miss. That’s why it’s all creased and dusty. It was there from before I came, Miss. I swear it!”
Charlotte felt as if her world had exploded. A voice whispered inside her that she should have expected it. She hunted in the chaos for something worth saving, to start rebuilding with. That had been Lily’s room for years. Sarah had never slept there; there had never been legitimate reason for Dominic to go to it. Could Lily have taken laundry there for some reason? Could Lily have taken it to mend? That possibility was excluded simply enough. There was no tear in it. Could Millie be lying? A glance at her face was enough to dismiss that notion.
“I’m sorry, Miss,” Millie whispered desperately. “Did I do wrong?”
Charlotte put out her hand and touched the girl’s clenched arm.
“No, Millie, you did the right thing, and there is no need to be afraid. But in case anyone should misunderstand, don’t speak of it again unless. . . .” She did not want to say it.
“Unless what, Miss?” Millie stared at her, gratitude in her eyes. “What should I say if I’m asked, Miss Charlotte?”
“I don’t see any reason why you should be asked, but if you are then tell the truth, Millie: just exactly what you know, nothing else. Don’t make any guesses. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Miss Charlotte. And—thank you, Miss.”
“That’s all right, Millie. And you’d better get that thing washed, and put it with the rest of the laundry. Please do it yourself. Don’t let Miss Sarah know.”
Millie’s face whitened.
“Miss Charlotte, do you think—”
“I don’t think anything, Millie. And I don’t want Miss Sarah to think anything either. Now go and do as you’re told.”
“Yes, Miss.” Millie bobbed a little curtsey and almost tripped over her feet going out.
As soon as she had gone, Charlotte collapsed onto the seat behind her, her legs shaking, her fingers stiff with pins and needles.
Dominic and Lily! Dominic on Lily’s bed! Dominic taking his tie off, his shirt, perhaps more, and then putting them on again in such a hurry he forgot his tie. She felt sick. Lily—little Lily Mitchell.
She had loved Dominic with all her heart, not asking anything in return, and he had gone to Lily, the maid. Was there something wrong with Dominic, with all men? Or with her? Was it her tongue? Was she unfeminine? People had liked her, but only that wretched Pitt had ever admired her, been enamoured of her because she was a woman.
This was ridiculous. Self-pity helped no one. She must think of something else. Lily was dead. Had she loved Dominic, too, or was it just—no, don’t think about that! Dominic was handsome, charming—her heart lurched. Why shouldn’t any woman admire him? Verity had, and she had seen it in Chloe’s eyes, too. And they were both dead!
She sat frozen. It could not be! Dominic had seen Papa in Cater Street the night Lily was killed. That meant he had been there himself. They had forgotten that. They had only thought about Papa. It had never even occurred to her that Dominic . . . ?
What was she saying? She loved Dominic; she had always loved him, as long as she had been a woman. How could this even be entering her mind?
What was the love she felt for him, then? What was it worth if she knew him so little she did not even know in her heart whether he could have done such things? Could she really love someone whom she knew so little? Before this afternoon she could not have conceived of his sleeping with Lily! And now in less than an hour she had accepted it. Was her love little more than fascination, love for love itself, love for something she imagined him to be, even love for his face, his smile, his eyes, the way his hair grew? Did she know, or love, anything of the man inside? What did he feel or think that had nothing to do with her, or even Sarah? Was it possible he loved Lily, or Verity—or hated them?
The more she thought about it, the more confused she became, the more she doubted herself and the love she thought she had felt so passionately all these years.
She was still sitting oblivious of the room, of the house, and certainly of time, when there was a knock on the door. It was Dora to say that the vicar’s wife had called, and should she bring tea, since it was approaching four o’clock.
Charlotte recalled herself with a massive effort. She had absolutely no desire whatever to see anyone, least of all Martha Prebble.
“Yes, Dora, by all means,” she said automatically. “And show Mrs. Prebble in.”
Martha Prebble looked less weary than the last time Charlotte had seen her. Some of her spirit seemed to have returned and there was a look of purpose in her face again.
She came forward with her hands out, frowning a little.
“My dear Charlotte, you look very pale. Are you well, my dear?”
“Oh yes, thank you, Mrs. Prebble.” Then she thought she had better explain herself, if s
he looked anything like she felt. “A little tired perhaps. I didn’t sleep very well last night. Nothing to be concerned about. Please sit down?” she indicated the overstuffed chair. She knew it was comfortable.
Martha sat. “You must take care of yourself. You have been such a help to poor Mrs. Lessing. Don’t now wear yourself out.”
Charlotte forced a smile. “You should be the last person to offer such advice. You seem to be everywhere, helping everyone.” A thought occurred to her. “And now you are here alone! Did you walk through the streets alone? You really shouldn’t do that! I shall send Maddock back with you. It will be growing darker by the time you leave. It could be quite dangerous!”
“That is most kind of you, but I fear I cannot become accustomed to having an escort wherever I go.”
“Then you must stay at home, at least . . . at least as long—”
Martha leaned forward, a faint smile on her strong face. “As long as what, my dear? Until the police catch this man? And how long do you imagine that will be? I cannot stop my parish work. There are many who need me. We are not all equally fortunate, you know. There are those who are alone, old, perhaps sick. Women whose husbands are dead or have abandoned them, women who have children to bring up without any help. The comfortable in the parish do not wish to know about them, but they are here.”
“In this area?” Charlotte was surprised. She thought everyone near Cater Street was at least satisfactorily placed, had the necessities of life, even a few comforts. She had never seen any poor, not that lived here.
“Oh, very respectable.” Martha’s eyes looked out of the window. “The poverty is underneath; the clothes are patched, sewed over and over. Perhaps there is only one pair of shoes, perhaps only one meal a day. Appearance, self-respect are everything.”
“Oh, how dreadful,” Charlotte did not mean it as tritely as it sounded. It was dreadful. It hurt. It was not like the grinding, starving poverty Inspector Pitt had told her about, but it was still painful, a constant, wearing pain. She had never in her life been hungry, or even had to wonder if something could be afforded. True, she had admired clothes she knew she could not have, but she had more than she could possibly claim to need.
“I’m sorry. Can I help?”
Martha smiled, putting her hand out to touch Charlotte’s knee.
“You are a very good girl, Charlotte. You take after your mother. I’m sure there will be things you can do, things you already have done. It is a great tragedy not all the young women in the parish conduct themselves as you do.”
She was interrupted by Dora bringing in tea. After Dora had gone, and Charlotte had poured and handed her her cup, she continued.
“There is so much lightmindedness, seeking one’s own pleasure.”
Charlotte reluctantly thought of Emily. Dearly as she loved her, she could not recall Emily ever having pursued any ends but her own.
“I’m afraid so,” she agreed. “Perhaps it is only lack of understanding?”
“Ignorance is something of an excuse, but not entirely. So often we do not look because if we looked we should feel obliged to do something.”
It was undeniably true, and it struck a note of guilt in Charlotte. Inadvertently she thought of Pitt. He had obliged her to see things she would have preferred not to, things that disturbed her, destroyed her peace of mind, her comfort. And she had disliked him intensely for it.
“I tried to make Verity see it the same way,” Martha was saying, her eyes on Charlotte’s face. “She had so many good qualities, poor Verity.”
“And I understand you knew Chloe fairly well, too.” The minute Charlotte had said it she wished she had not. It was a cruel reminder, a wakening of pain. She saw Martha’s face tighten and a spasm pass through the muscles round her mouth.
“Poor Chloe,” she said with a tone Charlotte could not understand. “So frivolous, so light. Laughing when she should not have. Pursuing society. I’m afraid there were sometimes sinful things on her mind, things of the—,” she caught her breath. “But let us not speak ill of the dead. She has paid for her sin and everything that was corrupting and corruptible in her is gone.”
Charlotte stared at her. The strong, fair face was full of confusion and unhappiness.
“Let us talk of something else,” Charlotte said firmly. “I have been copying out some recipes. I am sure you would be interested in at least one of them, because I remember Sarah saying you had enquired after a recipe for fricandeau of veal with spinach. I hear Mrs. Hilton has an extremely good cook? Or so Mrs. Dunphy was saying to Mama.”
“Yes, indeed. And so willing,” Martha agreed. “She does so much for church fetes and so forth, an excellent hand with pastry. It is not every cook who can make a good puff pastry, you know. Put their fingers in it too much. Light and quick, one needs to be. And also very clever with preserves and candied fruits. She was always sending her maid round with—” she stopped, her face pale, eyes distressed again.
Charlotte put out her hand instinctively.
“I know. Let us not think of it. We cannot alter it now. I’ll find you the recipe for the fricandeau.” She pulled her hand away quickly and stood up. Martha followed her and Charlotte moved round the other side of the table. She wanted the interview to end. It was embarrassing. She had handled it badly. She was deeply sorry for Martha, both particularly because of her distress for the dead girls, and generally because of her life with the vicar, a fate which right now seemed quite as bad as anything Pitt had spoken of.
“Here,” she held out a slip of paper. “I have already copied the fricandeau. I can easily do another one. Please? And I insist that Maddock walk home with you.”
“It’s not necessary.” Martha took the recipe without looking at it. “I assure you!”
“I refuse to permit you to leave my house alone,” Charlotte said firmly. She reached for the bell rope. “I should be guilty all evening. I should worry myself sick!”
And so Martha had no choice but to accept, and ten minutes later she took her departure with Maddock trailing dutifully behind.
Charlotte was not permitted to have a peaceful evening in which to sort out her chaotic feelings. Emily arrived home from visiting with the bombshell that she had invited Lord George Ashworth to dinner, and would be expecting him a little after seven o’clock.
Emily’s news drove the entire household into immediate panic. Only Grandmama seemed to derive any unalloyed pleasure from it. She was delighted to observe the frenzy, and gave a running monologue on the proper way to order a house in such a fashion that even an unexpected visit from royalty itself could be managed with dignity and at least an adequate table. Emily was too excited and Caroline too worried—and Charlotte too overwhelmed by her own problems to reply to her. It was eventually Sarah who told her sharply to hold her tongue, and thus sent Grandmama into a paroxysm of righteous rage so severe she had to go upstairs and lie down.
“Well done,” Charlotte said laconically. Sarah gave her the first real smile she had offered in weeks.
Everything was calm, at least on the surface, a full five minutes before George Ashworth arrived. They were all sitting in the withdrawing room, Emily dressed in rose pink which suited her very well, even if the extravagance of another new gown had not suited Papa. Sarah was dressed in green, also very becoming, and Charlotte in dull slate blue, a colour she had disliked until she caught sight of herself in the glass and saw how it flattered her eyes and the warm tones of her skin and hair.
She blushed uncomfortably when Ashworth bowed over her hand and his eyes lingered on her with approval. She disliked him, and thought him to be trifling with Emily. She replied to him formally with no more warmth than courtesy demanded.
Throughout the evening, however, she was obliged to revise her opinion to some extent. He behaved without appreciable fault; in fact, if he had not been in danger of hurting Emily, both publicly and privately, she could have quite sincerely liked him. He had wit and a certain outspokenness, although, n
o doubt, in his social position he could afford to say what he chose without fearing the consequences. He even flattered Grandmama, which was not difficult since she loved a handsome man, and loved a title even more.
Charlotte looked across and saw Emily’s face pucker in a little smile. Apparently she knew perfectly well what he was doing, and it suited her. Once again Charlotte’s anger rose. Damn the man for hurting Emily. She was a child in the ways of the world, compared to him!
The next time Charlotte spoke to him it was with a considerable chill in her voice. She saw Dominic staring at her in bewilderment, but she was too angry to care. And then all her old confusion about Dominic returned. She had loved him so much, and now all she could feel was a heart-sickening urge to protect him from—from what? From Pitt, the police—or himself?
It seemed as if the evening stretched forever. It was only eleven however, when George Ashworth took his leave and Charlotte excused herself and gratefully escaped to bed. She had expected to lie awake in a fever of thought all night, but she was hardly aware of lying down before the sleep of exhaustion overtook her.
The following day something infinitely worse awaited her. It was no more than ten o’clock in the morning when Maddock came to say that Inspector Pitt was in the hall and wished to see her.
“Me?” She tried to fend it off, hoping he would see someone else, perhaps that he had even come to see Papa, and was here now only to ensure that Papa would be in that evening.
“Yes, ma’am,” Maddock said firmly. “He especially asked for you.”
“Make sure it isn’t really the master he wants to see, this evening, will you, Maddock?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Maddock turned to leave, and as he was at the door, Pitt himself opened it and came in.
“Inspector Pitt!” Charlotte said sharply, intending to embarrass him into withdrawing. He was the last person in the world she wanted to see. Dominic’s tie loomed so large in her mind, it seemed as if Pitt would only have to speak to Millie, go into any part of the kitchen or laundry, and it would stare him in the face with all its appalling implications. She was even more afraid of what she herself might say. The sheer concentration on not mentioning it, the fear, kept it in the forefront of her mind.