by Anne Perry
“I admit I am disappointed,” Vespasia agreed with an unhappy little shake of her head. “I had grown rather to like him. This, as you say, is quite remarkably shabby.”
Breakfast was extraordinary for Eustace’s absence. Not only were all the windows still closed and the silver dishes on the sideboard untouched, but he had sent for a tray in his room. Neither was Jack Radley present; probably too ashamed to face them, Charlotte presumed. Nevertheless she was annoyed. She had wished to make him aware of her contempt.
It was after eleven when she went into the morning room to fetch some more notepaper and found Eustace sitting at the desk, silver inkwell open and a pen in his hand, but the sheet in front of him virgin white. He turned round at the sound of her step, and she saw with incredulity that his right eye was swollen and darkened with an immense bruise and there was a graze on the side of his face. She was too amazed to think what to say.
“Ah, oh ...” He looked awkward. “Good morning, Mrs. Pitt. I—er, I had a slight, accident. Fell.”
“Oh dear,” she said foolishly. “I hope you are not seriously hurt. Have you sent for the doctor?”
“Not necessary! Perfectly all right.” He closed the inkwell and stood up, wincing as his weight came onto his left leg. He let out his breath sharply.
“Are you sure?” she said with more concern than she felt. Her overriding emotion was curiosity. When had this extraordinary accident occurred? To sustain such injuries he must have fallen downstairs, at the very least. “I’m so sorry,” she added hastily.
“Very kind of you,” he answered, his eyes resting on her with appreciation for a moment. Then, as though recollecting some more pressing thought, he limped over to the door and out into the hall.
And at luncheon a totally new dimension appeared, startling Charlotte and obliging her to think far better of Eustace than she wished. Jack Radley came to the table nursing a painful right hand, and with a split and swollen lip. However, he offered no explanation at all, and no one asked him for any.
Charlotte was forced to conclude that Eustace had seen him early in the morning and thrashed him over the disgraceful affair in Sybilla’s room. And, for once, she admired him for it.
Remarkably, Sybilla herself spoke to Jack Radley perfectly civilly, even agreeably, although she looked very tense. Her shoulders were tight, stiff under the thin fabric of her dress, and the very few remarks she made were distracted, her mind obviously elsewhere. Perhaps she had a share of guilt. Had she implied, however obliquely, that he might be welcome?
Charlotte tried to behave as normally as possible, mainly because she did not want Emily to know what had happened—at least, not yet. Time enough for that kind of disillusion when she was home and would not see Jack Radley again.
For now let her believe in accidents.
Emily knew nothing about the extraordinary episode in the night, and the first she observed was early in the afternoon when she came downstairs and sat in the withdrawing room staring at the sunlight on the leaves in the conservatory. She saw William briefly as he came through to his studio. He looked at her with a hollow pain she took for pity but did not speak.
Tassie had gone off on good works again with the curate, visiting the sick or some such thing. Her grandmother said it was unnecessary; in the circumstances she might be excused. But Tassie had insisted. There were certain tasks she would not forgo; apparently she had given an undertaking, and she ignored argument. Eustace had not been present to lend his weight, and for once the old lady lost the contest, retiring to her boudoir to sulk.
Charlotte was with Aunt Vespasia, leaving Emily alone to while away the afternoon. She could not be bothered to occupy herself with any of the usually acceptable feminine tasks—painting, embroidery, music. She had written all the letters that were required of her, and visiting so soon after a family death was out of the question.
Therefore she was doing nothing at all when Eustace came in, limping noticeably. But it was not until he turned to speak to her that she saw the richly purpling bruise round his eye, now almost closed and looking acutely painful.
“Oh!” She drew in her breath sharply. “Whatever happened to you? Are you all right?” Emily stood up without thinking, as if in some way he might actually need her physical assistance.
He smiled awkwardly. “Ah, I tripped,” he said without meeting her eyes. “In the dark. Nothing for you to worry about. I suppose William’s in there”—he waved towards the conservatory—“fiddling about with his damn paints again. He can’t seem to leave them alone for five minutes. God knows, you’d think with all this distress in the family he’d be some use, wouldn’t you? But William always did run away from everything.” He swiveled round, winced with pain as his injured leg took his weight, and then moved towards the conservatory doors, leaving Emily with her answer unspoken on her lips.
She sat down again, feeling even more conscious of her loneliness.
It was several minutes before she became aware of voices, fragmented by the distance, the vines and leaves, and the heavy swags of curtain between the doors. But there was no mistaking the anger in them, the sharp cutting edge of old hatred.
“If you’d damn ... where you should, then you’d have known!” It was Eustace’s voice. William’s reply was indistinguishable.
“... thought you’d have been used to it!” Eustace shouted back.
“Your thoughts, we all know!” This time William’s answer was quite clear, ringing with unutterable disgust.
“... imagination ... never needed to ... your mother!” Eustace’s retaliation was disjointed, blurred by the tangle of plants.
“... mother ... for God’s sake!” William shouted in an explosion of violence.
Emily stood up, unable to bear the intrusion she was unwittingly making into what was obviously a highly intimate matter. She hesitated between leaving by way of the dining room and fleeing to some other part of the house, or having the courage and the effrontery to interrupt the quarrel and end it, at least temporarily. She turned to the conservatory, then back to the dining room, and was startled to see Sybilla in the doorway. For the first time since she had come to Cardington Crescent the look of anguish in Sybilla’s face overrode all Emily’s old hatred of her and prompted a sympathy she could not have imagined even a day before.
“... dare you! I won’t ...” William’s voice rose again, thick with emotion.
Sybilla almost ran across the floor, catching her skirts on the back of a chair and tearing at them impatiently, and disappeared into the conservatory, knocking against flowers and stepping off the path into the damp loam in her haste. A moment later the voices from beyond the leaves froze and there was utter silence.
Emily took a deep breath, her stomach tight, unclenching her hands deliberately, and walked towards the dining room door. She did not wish to be here when any of them returned. She would pretend complete ignorance; it was the only possible thing.
In the main hallway she met Jack Radley. His lip was swollen and there was a line of dried blood on it, and he carried his right hand awkwardly. He smiled at her, and drew in his breath in pain as the lip cracked.
“I suppose you tripped in the dark as well?” she said icily before she could stop herself, then wished she had simply ignored him.
He licked the lip and put his hand to it tenderly, but there was still that same gentleness in his eyes.
“Is that what he said?” he mumbled. “Not at all. I had a row with Eustace and hit him—and he hit me.”
“Obviously,” Emily replied without quite the contempt she had intended. “I am surprised you are still here.” She moved past him to go up the stairs, but he sidestepped and remained in front of her.
“If you expect me to explain myself, you’ll wait in vain. It is none of your business,” he said with an edge to his voice. “I don’t break confidences, even for you. But I admit I expected you of all people not to jump to conclusions.”
She felt a stab of shame. “I’m so
rry,” she said very quietly. “I’ve surely wished I could hit Eustace a few times myself. It looks as if you got rather the better of it.”
He grinned, regardless of the blood now staining his teeth. “For what it’s worth,” he agreed. “Emily—”
“Yes?” Then, as he said nothing, she added, “Your face is bleeding. You had better go and wash it. And find some ointment, or it will dry and crack again.”
“I know.” He put his hand on her arm gently and she could feel the warmth of him through the muslin of her sleeve. “Emily, keep your courage. We will find out who killed George—I promise you.”
Suddenly her throat ached abominably and she realized how deeply frightened she was, how close to weeping. Not even Thomas seemed able to help.
“Of course,” she said huskily, pulling away. This was ridiculous. She did not wish him to see her weakness—above all, she did not wish him to know how very agreeable she found him, in spite of her distrust. “Thank you. I’m sure you mean well.” She went hastily up the stairs, leaving him standing in the hall looking after her, and she turned onto the landing without glancing back.
9
EMILY SLEPT BADLY. It was a night full of enormous and ugly dreams, blood-spattered clothes, the rattle of stones on George’s coffin lid, the vicar’s pink face with his mouth opening and closing like a fish. And every time she woke the picture of Jack Radley came back to her, sitting on the nursery stool staring at her, the sun in his hair, and in his eyes the understanding that she knew he was guilty and there could be no escape. She woke at once sweating and chill, staring into the black void of the ceiling.
When she fell asleep again the dreams were worse, billowing one into another, swelling and bursting, then shrinking away into nothingness. Always there were faces; Uncle Eustace smug and smiling, staring at her with those round eyes that saw everything and understood nothing, not caring if she had murdered George or if it was someone else, only determined she should be blamed for it, to keep the March name clear. And Tassie, too mad to know anything. Old Mrs. March’s eyes like glass marbles, blind with malice, shrieking all the time. William with a paintbrush in his hand, and Jack Radley with the sun round his head like a halo, smiling because Emily had murdered her husband for love of him, over one kiss in the conservatory.
She lurched into wakefulness and lay watching the slow light creep across the ceiling. How long had she before Thomas had no choice but to arrest her? Every second ticking away was eating her life; the remnant was slipping into eternity and she was lying here alone and useless.
What was it that had so horrified Sybilla? That had ripped the usual mask off her face to show such hatred—twice; once at dinner two days ago, and then again in the withdrawing room when she overheard the quarrel in the conservatory?
She could bear it no longer and climbed out of bed. It was already light and she could see quite easily where she was going. She put on a wrap over her nightgown and tiptoed across the room to the door. She would ask her! She would go to Sybilla’s room now when she was alone and could not make some polite evasion, or claim a pressing duty, nor would anyone interrupt them.
She opened the door slowly, holding the latch so it would not fall back with a noise. There was no sound outside. She looked up and down the passage. The dawn light came in cool and gray through the windows and fell on the bamboo-patterned wallpaper opposite. A bowl of flowers glowed yellow. There was no one.
She stepped out and walked quickly towards the room she knew was Sybilla’s. She had no doubt what she was going to say. She would tell Sybilla that she had seen that look in her face, and wherever her pity lay, whatever loyalties she thought she had, if she did not tell Emily what act in the past had given birth to such a depth of loathing, she would go to Thomas Pitt and let him discover it in her with pryings and questions which would be far harder. From the anger in which she left the room the night before, she was willing to threaten anything. It was too late to care about sensitivity or embarrassment now.
She found her hand was shaking as she lifted it to grasp Sybilla’s doorknob and turn it slowly. Perhaps it would be locked, and she would be forced to wait till day. She could put off the inevitable answers for a few hours more. But it turned easily in her hand. Of course. Why would anyone lock doors in a house like this? It would mean having to get out of bed to let the maid in. Who wanted to do that? Half the point of having a maid was to avoid getting up and pulling the curtains or drawing the water yourself. If you were going to get out of a warm bed on demand, fresh from sleep, the whole luxury was lost.
She was inside now. It was quite light. The curtains were yellow and the window faced the sun. Sybilla was already awake, sitting upright against the nearest high, carved bedpost, facing the window, her black hair in thick tresses wound at both front and back. The thought passed through Emily’s mind that it was an odd way to wear it.
“Sybilla,” she said quietly, “I’m sorry to intrude, but I couldn’t sleep. I need to talk to you. I believe you know who murdered George, and—” She was at the end of the bed now and she could see Sybilla more clearly. She was sitting very awkwardly, her back rigid against the bedpost and her head a little to one side, as if she had fallen asleep.
Emily came round the far edge of the bed and leaned forward.
Then she saw Sybilla’s face and felt the horror rising inside her, robbing her of breath, freezing her heart. Sybilla was staring with blind, bulging eyes out of swollen flesh, her mouth open, tongue out; the black hair was knotted tight round her throat and swept back round the bedpost and tied again.
Emily opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came at all, only a violent dry ache in her throat. She found she had her hands to her lips, and there was blood on her knuckles where she had bitten them. She must not faint! She must get help! Quickly! And she must get out of here—she must not be alone.
At first she was shaking so much her legs would not obey her. She knocked into the corner of the bed and bruised herself, felt for the chair to regain her balance and nearly upset it. There was no time to be sick—someone else might come and find her here. They blamed her already for George’s death—they would be sure to blame her for this too.
The doorknob was stiff now; twice she turned it and her sweaty fingers let it slip back before she pulled the door open and almost fell out into the corridor. Thank God there was no one else there, no housemaid hurrying down to clean grates or prepare the dining room. Almost running, she made her way to the dressing room where Charlotte was, and without knocking, fumbled for the handle and threw it open.
“Charlotte! Charlotte! Wake up. Wake up and listen to me—Sybilla is dead!” She could dimly make out the form of Charlotte, her hair a dark cloud on the white pillow.
“Charlotte!” She could hear her voice rising hysterically and could not help it. “Charlotte!”
Charlotte sat up, and her whisper came out of the cool grayness. “What is it, Emily? Are you ill?”
“No ... no ...” She gulped painfully. “Sybilla is dead! I think she’s been murdered. I just found her ... in her bedroom ... strangled with her own hair!”
Charlotte glanced at the clock on the bedside table. “Emily, it’s twenty past five. Are you sure you didn’t have a nightmare?”
“Yes! Oh, God! They’re going to blame me for this too!” And in spite of all the strength of will she thought she had, she began to weep, crumpling slowly into a little heap on the end of the bed.
Charlotte climbed out and came to her, putting her arms round her and holding her, rocking her like a child. “What happened?” she said quietly, trying to keep her voice calm. “What were you doing in Sybilla’s room at this time in the morning?”
Emily understood Charlotte’s urgency; she dared not indulge in misery and fear. Only thought, rational and disciplined, could help. She tried to iron out the violence in her mind and grasp the elements that mattered.
“I saw her face at dinner the night before last. For a moment, there was such
a look of hatred on it as she turned to Eustace. I wanted to know why. What did she know about him, or did she fear he was going to do something? Charlotte, they are convinced I murdered George, and they are going to make sure Thomas has no choice but to arrest me. I have to find out who did—to save myself.”
For a moment Charlotte was silent; then she stood up slowly. “I’d better go and see, and if you’re right I’ll waken Aunt Vespasia. We’ll have to call the police again.” She pulled on a shawl and hugged it round herself. “Poor William,” she said almost under her breath.
When she had gone Emily sat curled up on the end of the bed and waited. She wanted to think, to see the pattern falling clearly, but it was too soon. She was shivering—not with cold, because the air was warm; the chill was inside, just as the darkness was. Whoever had murdered George had now murdered Sybilla, almost certainly because Sybilla knew who he—or she—was.
Was it something to do with Eustace and Tassie? Or Eustace alone? Or was it Jack Radley after all?
The door opened and Charlotte came back, her face tight and pale in the softening dawn light coming through the windows. Her hands were shaking.
“She’s dead,” she said with a gulp. “Stay here and lock the door behind me. I’m going to tell Aunt Vespasia.”
“Wait!” Emily stood up, and lost her balance; her legs were weak as if her knees would not lock. “I’m coming. I’d rather come with you—anyway, you shouldn’t go alone.” She tried again, and this time her body obeyed her, and wordlessly she and Charlotte crept shoulder to shoulder along the landing, feet soundless on the carpet. The jardinière with its splayed ferns seemed like half a tree, casting octopus shadows on the wallpaper.
They knocked at Vespasia’s door and waited. There was no answer. Charlotte knocked again, then turned the handle experimentally. It was not locked. She opened it and they both slipped in, closing it behind them with a tiny click.