Cardington Crescent

by Anne Perry

  “A great deal,” he replied levelly. “But I am not yet sure as to its value.”

  “No arrest?” Eustace persisted, his face brightening and his broad shoulders relaxing, making the well-cut jacket sit more evenly without the tensions in the weave. “You don’t surprise me. Domestic tragedy. Told you so in the first place. I daresay a nursing home can be found. There will be no shortage of means, and she can be made very comfortable. Best for all of us. Nothing proved. Not possible. No blame attached to you, my dear fellow. Invidious position for you.”

  So he was already preparing to have the case closed and all investigation effectively prevented. It would be so easy for the Marches to protect themselves by blaming Emily. They had barely waited till the body was in the ground before beginning, with a small lie here or there, a very discreet conspiracy, for the sake of them all. They might even convince themselves—all but one—that it really had been Emily who murdered George, in a fit of jealousy. And that one would be the keenest of all, whether they betrayed it or not, to have Emily disposed of quietly and the guilt forever apportioned, the case closed.

  Worse than that was the wisp of suspicion nagging at the back of his mind that it was not impossible that it had been Emily. He would not say so to Charlotte, and he felt a sting of guilt for the thought. But no one else had mentioned the supposed reconciliation, and without that she had one of the oldest and best motives in the human condition: that of the woman ridiculed and then betrayed. She had been witness to so much of the aftermath of murder, through Charlotte and himself, perhaps the idea was closer in the shadows of her thought than they knew.

  “Most unfortunate,” Eustace repeated with increasing satisfaction. “No doubt you did all you could.”

  The unctuousness of it, the assumption of his blindness, his willingness to comply, was insulting.

  “I have barely begun,” Pitt said harshly. “I shall discover a great deal more; in fact I shall not rest until I have proof as to who murdered George.”

  “For heaven’s sake, why?” Eustace protested, eyes wide at such nonsensical behavior. “You can only cause needless pain, to your own wife not least. Have a little compassion, man, a little sensitivity!”

  “I don’t know that it was Emily!” Pitt glared at him, feeling angry and helpless and wishing he could beat that appalling certainty out of Eustace. He was standing there squarely in front of the dead fireplace, with all his comfortable possessions round him, disposing of Emily’s life as if she were a household pet that had become troublesome. “There’s no proof!” he said loudly.

  “Then you can’t expect to find it, can you?” Eustace was eminently reasonable, his eyes wide. “Don’t blame yourself. I daresay you are perfectly efficient, but you cannot work miracles. Let us deal with it without scandal—for Emily’s sake, and for the child’s.”

  “His name is Edward!” Pitt was furious and he could feel himself losing the control which was the core of any intelligent pursuit of truth, but he scrambled after it in vain, his voice rising. “Why do you believe it was Emily? Have you some evidence you’ve not given me?”

  “My dear chap!” Eustace rocked back and forth gently, hands still in his pockets. “George was having an affair with Sybilla! Emily knew it, and could not control her jealousy. Surely you realize that?”

  “That is an excellent motive.” Pitt lowered his voice with an effort. “For Emily, and for Mr. William March. I can see no difference, unless you believe Emily’s story that she and George were reconciled, in which case the motive is stronger for Mr. March!”

  Eustace smiled broadly, his composure quite undisturbed. “Not at all, my dear fellow. First of all, I for one do not believe the story of a reconciliation. Wishful thinking, or very natural fear. But even so, the position for Emily is quite different from that for William. Emily wanted George—indeed, needed him.” He nodded once or twice. “If a husband has affairs a woman has no choice but to accept it as best she may. A wise woman will pretend not to know—that way she does not have to do anything at all. Her home and her family are not jeopardized by a little foolishness. Without her husband she has nothing. Where would she go, what would she do?” He shrugged. “She would be outcast from Society and without a penny to bless herself, let alone to feed and clothe herself and her children.

  “On the other hand, for a man it is quite different. I may as well tell you, Sybilla has behaved indiscreetly on other occasions, and poor William resolved not to put up with it any longer. Added to which, she had given him no family, which, although I daresay it is an affliction the poor woman cannot help, it is an affliction nonetheless. He wished to divorce her and take a more suitable wife, who would fulfill a wife’s role for him and be the fount of family joy. He was very pleased Sybilla had at last provided the justification he needed so as not to seem in anyone’s eyes to be unjust, or to cast her aside because she is barren.”

  Pitt was staggered. It was something he had not even imagined. “William was going to divorce Sybilla?” he repeated stupidly. “No one said so.”

  “Ah, no.” Eustace’s smile grew even more confidential and he leaned forward a little, taking his hands out of his pockets and placing one on the back of the chair to maintain his balance. “I daresay that was the quarrel Emily thought she overheard. Now that Sybilla is going to have a child at last, that naturally changes things. For the child’s sake, William has forgiven her and will take her back. And of course she is very grateful and repentant. I imagine her behavior in future will be all that can be desired.” His face shone with eminent satisfaction.

  Pitt was speechless. He had no idea whether it was true, but he knew from his slight knowledge of the divorce laws that what Eustace said was correct: a man might divorce his wife and put her out on the street for adultery, but a woman could do nothing whatsoever by law. Adultery was beside the point, as long as it was he who committed it, and not she.

  “I see you understand,” Eustace was saying, the words passing over Pitt’s head like the rattle of water. “Very wise. Least said the better. Treated you to a confidence. Know you won’t repeat it. Trust your discretion. Matters like that are between a man and his wife.” He spread his hands wide, palms up in a confidential gesture from one man of reason to another. “Just told you so you would understand. Poor William has had a lot to put up with, but he should be at the beginning of happiness now. Tragedy poor Emily couldn’t have kept her head—another few days and all would have been well. Tragedy.” He sniffed. “But you can rest assured we shall look after her; she’ll have the best of care.”

  “I’m not leaving,” Pitt said, feeling foolish. He must look ridiculous in this sedate room, with its collection of family relics, and Eustace himself as solid as the hide chairs. Pitt had a tumble of hair, his tie was crooked and his coat hung askew, and he had two of George’s handkerchiefs in his pocket. Eustace’s boots were polished by the bootboy every day; Pitt’s were patched on the soles and cleaned by Gracie, when she remembered and had the time. “I’m not finished,” he said again.

  “As you wish.” Eustace was disappointed, but not concerned. “Carry out whatever you think is necessary. Make it look fitting, by all means. Don’t want to lose you your job. I’m sure the kitchen will give you dinner, if you like. And your fellow, Stripe, of course.”

  Stripe was delighted to have dinner in the kitchen, not because he had any hope at all that he would learn something of value to the case, but because Lettie Taylor was also there, neat and pretty as a cottage garden, and in Stripe’s opinion, every bit as pleasing. He kept his eyes deliberately on his plate, longing to look at her but furiously self-conscious. He was not accustomed to eating in such formal, even hierarchical, company. The butler sat at the head of the table like the father of a large family, and the housekeeper at the foot, as a mother would. The butler presided as if it were a function of great importance, and strict ritual was observed. The junior footmen and youngest maids did not speak at all unless they were spoken to. The lady’s maids
, resident and visiting, seemed to be a class apart, both by the house servants’ reckoning and by their own. The senior footmen, kitchen maid, and parlormaid sat in the middle and volunteered a good deal of the conversation.

  Table manners were quite as refined as those in the front dining room, and the discussion surely as stilted, but there was rather more of a domestic atmosphere. The food was complimented dish by dish as it was served, eaten, and cleared. The younger members’ manners were corrected gently but with a parental familiarity. There were giggles, blushes, sulks, just as Stripe could remember at his own home when he was growing up. Only the standards were strange and strict: elbows at sides, all green vegetables to be eaten or there was no pudding, no peas on the knife; speaking with the mouth full was reproved instantly, uninvited opinions quashed. For him to have mentioned death would have been gross bad taste, and murder unthinkable.

  Involuntarily Stripe stole a look at Lettie, prim in white lace over her black, and found she was also looking at him. Even in the gaslight her eyes were just as blue. He looked away again quickly, and was too self-conscious to eat, afraid he would push peas off his plate onto the sparkling cloth.

  “Is your meal not to your taste, Mr.—er, Stripe?” the housekeeper asked coolly.

  “Oh, excellent, ma’am, thank you,” he answered. Then as they were still looking at him he felt something more was required, and went on. “I—I suppose my thoughts was a little taken up.”

  “Well, I hope you in’t going to discuss them ’ere!” The cook blew down her nose in distaste. “Really! We’ve already ’ad Rosie in ’ysterics, and Marigold given notice and gone ’eavens knows where. I don’t know what things are coming to, I swear I don’t!”

  “We’ve never had police in a house where I’ve been before,” Sybilla’s maid said stiffly. “Never. It’s only my loyalty that keeps me in this house a moment longer.”

  “Neither have we!” Lettie answered her, so quickly the words tripped off her tongue before she had time to consider them. “But what do you want? That we should be left to be murdered in our beds with no one to protect us? I’m very glad they’re here.”

  “Ha! I daresay you are.” the housekeeper said tartly.

  Lettie blushed a deep pink. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” She looked down at her plate, and beside her one of the upstairs maids giggled, stifling it in her napkin when the butler glared at her.

  Stripe felt an undeniable compulsion to defend her. How dare anyone slight her and cause her embarrassment!

  “Very dignified of you, miss,” he said, looking straight at her. “Understandin’ adversity and takin’ it calm, like. Good sense is about the best cure for times like these. Lot of ’arm avoided if there was more who showed it.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Stripe,” Lettie said demurely. But the pinkness crept further up her cheeks, and he dared to hope it was pleasure.

  The rest of the meal passed in conversation about trivialities, but when Stripe could no longer think of anything else to ask, Pitt having exhausted his duties in the front of the house, it was time to leave. He went with regret, replaced by a ridiculous elation as Lettie came down into the kitchen on some slight pretext, caught his eye and bade him good night, and then, swishing her skirt with an elegant little step, vanished up the stairs and into the hallway.

  Stripe opened his mouth to reply, but it was too late. He turned and saw Pitt smiling, and knew his admiration—he would still call it that—was too plain in his face.

  “Very nice,” Pitt said approvingly. “And sensible.”

  “Er, yes, sir.”

  Pitt’s smile widened. “But suspicious, Stripe, very suspicious. I think you had better question her a lot more—see what she knows.”

  “Oh no, sir! She’s as—Oh.” He caught Pitt’s eye. “Yes, sir, I’ll do that, sir. Tomorrow morning, first thing, sir.”

  “Good. And good luck, Stripe.”

  But Stripe was too full of emotion to speak.

  Upstairs in the dining room, dinner was worse than even Charlotte could have imagined. Everyone was there, including Emily, looking ashen with misery. All the women wore either black or gray, except Aunt Vespasia who always refused to. She wore lavender. The first course was served in near silence. By the time they had let their soup grow cold and pushed whitefish in a sauce like glue from one side of the plate to the other, the oppression was becoming unbearable.

  “Impertinent little man!” Mrs. March burst out suddenly.

  Everyone froze, horrified, wondering wildly whom she was addressing.

  “I beg your pardon?” Jack Radley looked up, eyebrows raised.

  “The policeman—Spot, or whatever his name is,” Mrs. March went on. “Asking the servants all sorts of questions about matters that are none of his business.”

  “Stripe,” Charlotte said very quietly. It hardly mattered, but she was glad of an excuse to retaliate.

  Mrs. March glared at her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Stripe,” Charlotte repeated. “The policeman’s name is Stripe, not Spot.”

  “Stripe, Spot, it’s all the same. I’d have thought you’d have more important things to remember than a policeman’s name.” Mrs. March stared at her, her face cold, eyes like bluish-green marbles. “What are you going to do with your sister? You can’t expect us to bear the burden of responsibility. God knows what she will do next!”

  “That was uncalled for,” Jack Radley said furiously. There was instant and icy silence, but he was unabashed. “Emily has enough grief without our indulging in vicious and uninformed speculation.”

  Mrs. March sniffed and cleared her throat. “Your speculation may be uninformed, Mr. Radley—although I doubt it. Mine is most certainly not. You may know Emily a great deal more intimately than I do, but you have not known her as long.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Lavinia!” Vespasia said hoarsely. “Have you forgotten every vestige of good manners? Emily has buried her husband today, and we have guests at the table.”

  Two spots of scarlet stained Mrs. March’s white cheeks. “I will not be criticized in my own house!” she said furiously, her voice rising to a shriek.

  “Since you hardly ever leave it anymore, it would seem to be the only place available,” Aunt Vespasia snapped back at her.

  “I might have expected that from you!” Mrs. March swung round to glare at Vespasia and knocked over a glass of water. It rolled across the cloth and dripped water noisily down into Jack Radley’s lap, soaking him to the skin, but he was too paralyzed with horror at the scene to move.

  “You are perfectly accustomed to having the most vulgar people tramping through your house,” Mrs. March went on, “probing and prying, and talking of obscenities and God knows what among the criminal classes.”

  Sybilla gasped and tore her handkerchief. Jack Radley looked at Vespasia in fascination.

  “That’s nonsense!” Tassie flew to her favorite grandmother’s defense. “Nobody’s vulgar in front of Grandmama—she wouldn’t let them be! And Constable Stripe is only doing his duty.”

  “And if somebody hadn’t murdered George, he wouldn’t have any duty to do in Cardington Crescent,” Eustace pointed out exasperatedly. “And don’t be impertinent to your grandmother, Anastasia, or I shall require you to finish your dinner upstairs in your room.”

  Temper flashed in Tassie’s face, but she said nothing more. Her father had dismissed her in the past, and she knew he would do it quite easily now.

  “George’s death is not Aunt Vespasia’s fault,” Charlotte said for her. “Unless you are suggesting she killed him?”

  “Hardly.” Mrs. March sniffed again, a sound full of irritation and contempt. “Vespasia may be eccentric, even a little senile, but she is still one of us. She would never do such a fearful thing. And she is not your aunt.”

  “You’ve tipped your water all over our guests,” Vespasia said curtly. “Poor Mr. Radley is soaked. Do look what you are doing, Lavinia.”

  It was so t
rivial and idiotic it effectively silenced Mrs. March, and there were several moments of peace while the next course was served.

  Eustace drew in his breath; his chest swelled. “We have a most distasteful time ahead of us,” he said looking round at each of them in turn. “Whatever our individual weaknesses, we none of us desire a scandal.” He let the word hang in the air. Vespasia closed her eyes and sighed gently. Sybilla still sat totally mute, disregarding everyone, self-absorbed. William looked at Emily, and there was a flash of profound, almost wounding pity in his face.

  “I don’t see how we can avoid it, Papa,” Tassie said into the silence. “If it really was murder. Personally I think it was probably some sort of accident, in spite of what Mr. Pitt says. Why on earth would anyone want to kill George?”

  “You are very young, child,” Mrs. March said with a curl of her lips. “And very ignorant. There are a multitude of things you do not know, and probably never will, unless you fill out a little and manage to hide all those freckles. To the rest of us it is perfectly obvious, if excessively distasteful.” Again she let her fish-blue eyes rest on Emily.

  Tassie opened her mouth to retaliate but closed it again. Charlotte felt a sudden surge of anger for her. Above all things being patronized galled her soul.

  “Neither do I,” she said bluntly, “know of any reason why someone should have killed George.”

  “You would say that, wouldn’t you.” Mrs. March stared at her malevolently. “I always said George married badly.”

  Fire rushed up Charlotte’s cheeks and the blood pounded in her temples. The hard, accusing look in the old woman’s eyes was too plain to misunderstand. She thought Emily had murdered George and intended to see her punished for it.

  She gulped air and then hiccuped loudly. Everyone was looking at her, their faces a pale sea mirrored with eyes, horrified, embarrassed, compassionate, accusing. She hiccuped again.

  Next to her William leaned forward, poured her a glass of water, and passed it to her. She took it from him in silence, hiccuping once more, then drank a little and tried holding her breath, her napkin held to her lips.