by Anne Perry
She picked up the unmarked book. It was a diary begun some years ago in an ordinary notebook, no dates printed, no headings except those Sybilla had written herself.
Charlotte opened it at random and saw the notation, Christmas Eve, 1886. A few months ago. She read with horror.
William has been painting all day. I can see it is brilliant, but I wish he would not spend so much time on it, leaving me alone with the family. The old woman is still asking me when I propose to become a “real woman” and bear a family, an heir for the Marches. There are times when I hate her so much I would gladly kill her if I knew how. Perhaps I would regret it afterwards, but it could hardly be worse than the way I feel now. And Eustace sits there talking about what a waste William is—painting life instead of living it. And he looks at me unctuously, all the time I feel as if his eyes see through my clothes. He has such manhood! How can I ever have been insane enough to let him make love with me? I would give anything on earth to have refused him—but that is a pointless thought, we are both locked in it, and I dare not tell anyone. Tassie would be appalled, not for her father—sometimes I think she has no love for him anyway—but for William, whom she loves so much, and with such gentleness. More than most sisters, I think.
Dear God! I’m so miserable I don’t know what to do. But cowardice won’t help. I have always been able to charm men. I will find a way out.
Charlotte was shaking, and in spite of the heat in the closed room there were trickles of sweat chilling on her body. Was that what it was all about with George? Not a grand passion at all, not even the vanity of a beautiful woman, but a protection from Eustace? The thought made her feel sick.
She flicked through more pages of the little book till she came to the end. She read the last entry.
I can hardly believe it! Nothing seems to shatter his appetite or frighten him! I am almost driven into thinking it was a nightmare as he tried to make us all believe. I have to look at Jack to make myself sure.
Poor Jack. Grandmother Vespasia looks at him with such disappointment; I think she really liked him. He is just the sort of man I fancy she would have led a rare dance when she was young. And Charlotte! She is disgusted, and it shows so plainly in her face. I imagine that is on Emily’s account. I wish I had a sister who cared for me so much. I never before felt as if I needed one, someone to trust, who would defend me. But I do now.
Perhaps my screaming will be enough. Please God. Eustace did look truly horrified, just for a moment, before he thought what to say when everyone came running. I don’t think he really believed I would, until I opened my mouth.
And, so help me God—if he comes again I shall scream again, I don’t care what anyone thinks—and I told him I would.
Now he has a black eye and Jack a split lip.
Jack must have gone to his room and thrashed him. Dear Jack.
But what on earth can I do when he leaves?
Please, God, help me.
And there it ended. There had not been another morning for Sybilla to write.
But why had she not told William?
Because William already had no love for his father, and she was afraid of what he would do in rage and the depth of his hurt and revulsion. Or perhaps because in any battle between William and Eustace, she was afraid Eustace would always win. No wonder she hated him.
There was a noise outside the door—not the light trip of a housemaid, but a heavy tread. A man’s step.
There was no time to escape; the footsteps stopped and someone touched the doorknob. In a panic she threw the vanity case back under the bed and rolled in after it, banging against something hard, snatching her skirts after her and pulling down the counterpane just as the door opened and, after a moment, closed again. He was in the room, whoever he was.
She was huddled up against the trunk, the vanity case digging into her back, but she dared not move. She thought of Sybilla lying stiff and cold a few feet above her on the bed; there was only the thickness of the springs and the mattress between them.
Who was it? He was opening and closing drawers, searching through them. She heard the wardrobe door squeak just as it had for her, and then the rustle of taffeta, a swish of silk. Then it closed again.
Dear heaven! Was he looking for the little book she still had in her hand? His feet were moving back this way. She would have given a lot to know who it was, but she dared not lift the counterpane even an inch to look. Whoever it was might be facing this way, and he would surely see. And then what? Haul her out and, at best, accuse her of robbing the dead—
The vanity case was digging into her, its edges bruising her back. The feet had not moved. There was a faint sound—of shifting weight, and rustling cloth—what was it?
The answer was instant. The counterpane was whipped away and she was staring, paralyzed, into Eustace’s red face and round eyes.
For a long, terrible second he was as transfixed as she was. Then he spoke, his voice a parody of its usual self.
“Mrs. Pitt! Is there anything whatsoever you can say to explain yourself?”
Had he any idea what was written in Sybilla’s book? She clung to it so hard her fingers were white. She tried to speak, but her throat was dry, and she was so frightened she could not move. She could not even crawl backwards, because of the trunk. If he decided to attack her, to get back the damning book—and that was surely what he had been looking for—then the only escape she had was to stay here, where he could not reach her. It was too low for his thick body to get in.
That was preposterous. She could hardly remain under the bed until someone else came to coax her out.
“Mrs. Pitt!” Eustace’s face was hard now, his eyes dangerous. Yes, he had seen the little white leather book in her hand, and guessed what it was, if he did not already know. She stared back at him like a rabbit.
“Mrs. Pitt, how long do you propose to remain under the bed? I invited you to my house in order to be of comfort to your sister in her bereavement, but you force me to think you are as mentally infirm as she is!” He held out his hand, strong and square; even now she noticed how clean it was, how perfectly manicured the nails. “And give me the book,” he added with only the slightest stammer. “I will pretend I do not know you took it. It will be for the best, but I believe you should return to your own house at once. You are obviously unsuited to remain in a household such as ours.”
She did not move. If she gave him the book he would destroy it, and there would be nothing left except her word, which no one would have believed against his even before this.
“Come!” he said angrily. “You are being foolish! Get out of there!”
She reached up slowly to her neck and undid the top three buttons of her dress.
He stared at her in horrified fascination, and in spite of himself his eyes went to her bosom, always one of her handsomest assets.
“Mrs. Pitt!” he said hoarsely.
Very carefully she pushed the little white book down the front of her dress and fastened it up again. It felt uncomfortable, and no doubt looked ridiculous, but he would have to tear her bodice to take it from her, and that would be very hard indeed for him to explain.
Still looking at him, his eyes now hot and furious—perhaps he was as frightened as she was—she scrambled very awkwardly out from under the bed and stood up, rumpled and stiff, her legs shaking.
“That book does not belong to you, Mrs. Pitt,” he said grimly. “Give it to me!”
“It doesn’t belong to you either,” she answered with as much courage as she could. He was very strong, thick-chested, broad-hipped, and he stood between her and the door. “I shall give it to the police.”
“No, you won’t.” He reached out and took her arm. His fingers closed right around her, immovably.
Her breath almost choked her. “Are you going to tear my dress off to get it, Mr. March?” She tried to make her voice light, and failed. “That will be extremely awkward for you to explain, and I shall scream—and you won’t pass thi
s off as a nightmare!”
“And how will you account for being here in Sybilla’s room?” he asked. But he was afraid, and she smelled it in the air, felt it in the bruising pressure of his fingers.
“How will you?”
His mouth flickered in the sickest of smiles. “I shall say I heard a sound in here and came in, and I found you going through Sybilla’s jewel case—the reason for that will be painfully obvious.”
“Then I shall say the same!” she countered. “Only it was not the jewel case, it was the vanity case under the bed. And I shall say you found the diary, and then everyone will read what is in it!”
His hand weakened. She saw the fear deepen in his face and sweat break out through the skin of his upper lip and above his eyebrows.
“Let me go, Mr. March, or I shall call out. There must be maids around, and Aunt Vespasia is in her room across the landing.”
Slowly, an inch at a time, he took his hand away, and she waited till it was fully gone, just in case he changed his mind, before she turned and walked, legs wobbling, to the door and out onto the landing. She felt light-headed and a little sick with relief. She must find Thomas immediately.
10
CHARLOTTE FOUND PITT in the butler’s pantry and threw the door open, interrupting Constable Stripe in midsentence, and barely hesitating to apologize.
“Thomas! I’ve discovered the answer, or at least one of the answers—excuse me, Constable—in Sybilla’s diary, something I never even thought of.” She stopped abruptly. Now that they were both staring at her she felt vulnerable for the secret she had discovered. Not for Eustace—she would happily have seen him humiliated. But for Sybilla she felt unexplainably naked.
“What have you found?” Pitt asked anxiously, his eyes wide, seeing the fear and the flush in her face more than hearing her words. There was no triumph in her.
She glanced at Stripe—only for a moment, but he saw it, and instantly she was sorry. She swung round to turn her back to him, unbuttoned her dress just enough to pull out the diary, and handed it to Pitt.
“Christmas Eve,” she said very quietly. “Read the entry for Christmas Eve, last year, and then the very last one.”
He took the book and opened it, riffling through the pages till he came to December, then turned them one by one. Finally he stopped altogether, and she watched his face as he read it, the mixture of anger and disgust slowly blurring and becoming inextricably confounded with pity. He read the end.
“And he killed George over her.” He looked up at Charlotte, and passed the book without explanation to Stripe. “I suppose poor Sybilla knew, or guessed.”
“I wonder why he didn’t look for the book when he killed her,” she said with quiet unhappiness.
“Maybe he heard something,” Pitt replied. “Someone else awake—even Emily coming. And he dared not wait.”
Charlotte shuddered. “Are you going to arrest him?”
He hesitated, weighing the question, looking at Stripe, whose face was red and unhappy.
“No,” he answered flatly. “Not yet. This isn’t proof. He could deny it all, say it was Sybilla’s imagination. Without any other evidence, it’s only her word against his. To make it known now would hurt William, perhaps even cause more violence and more tragedy.” His mouth moved in the faintest of smiles. “Let Eustace wait and worry for a while. Let’s see what he does.” He looked at Charlotte. “You said there was another book, with addresses?”
“Yes.”
“Then we had better get that as well. It may mean nothing, but we’ll check through them all, see who they are.”
Charlotte went obediently back to the door. Pitt hesitated, looking at Stripe with a half smile. “Sorry, Stripe, but I shall need you for this, and it may take some time.”
For a moment Stripe did not understand the reason for the apology; then his face fell and the pink crept up his cheeks.
“Yes, sir. Er ...” His head came up. “Would there be time, sir ... ?”
“Of course there would,” Pitt agreed. “But don’t waste words. Be back here in fifteen minutes.”
“Yes, sir!” Stripe waited only until Charlotte and Pitt were round the corner in the corridor before he shot out, stopped the first maid he saw, which chanced to be the parlormaid, and asked her where Miss Taylor was at that moment.
He looked so urgent and impressive in his uniform that she responded immediately, without her usual prevarication towards strangers in the house—especially of the lower orders, such as police, chimney sweeps, and the like.
“In the stillroom, sir.”
“Thank you!” He turned on his heel and made his way, past the other small rooms for numerous household duties, to the stillroom, which had originally been used for the making of cordials and perfumes but was now largely for tea, coffee, and the storing of sweetmeats.
Lettie was putting a large fruitcake into a tin and she turned at the rather heavy sound of his feet. She was even prettier than last time he saw her. He had not noticed before how her hair swept off her brow, or how delicate her ears were.
“Good morning, Mr. Stripe,” she said with a little sniff. “If you’ve come to look at this coffee, you’re welcome, I’m sure, but there’s no point. It’s all new in—”
Stripe brought his mind to attention. “No, I didn’t,” he said more firmly than he would have believed. “We’ve got some new evidence.”
She was interested in spite of herself, and frightened. She liked to tell herself she was independent, but in truth she had a strong loyalty to the household, especially Tassie, and she would have gone to great lengths to prevent any of them being hurt, especially by outsiders. She stood still, staring up at Stripe, her mind racing over what he might say and how she should answer.
She gulped. “Have you?”
He wished he could comfort her, reassure her, but he dared not—not yet.
“I’m going to ’ave to go away to look into it.”
“Oh!” She looked startled, then disappointed. Then as she saw the pleasure in his face and realized she had betrayed herself, she straightened so stiffly her back was like a ramrod, and her chin so high her neck hurt. “Indeed, an’ I suppose that’s your duty, Mr. Stripe.” She did not trust herself to go on. It was ridiculous to be upset over a policeman, of all things!
“I may be quite a time,” he went on. “Might even find the solution—and not come back again.”
“I hope you do. We don’t want terrible things like this happening and no one caught.” She moved as if to turn back to the cake tin and the rows of tea caddies, but changed her mind. She was confused, not certain whether she was angry with him or not.
Pitt’s admonition was ringing in his ears. Time was sliding by. All must be won or lost now. He screwed up his courage and plunged in, staring at the Chinese flower design on the jar behind her. “So I came to say as I’d like it very much if I could call on you, personal, like.”
She drew in her breath quickly, but since he was not looking at her he could not judge the reason.
“Perhaps you’d come with me for a walk in the park, when the band’s playing? It can be ...” He hesitated again and met her eyes at last. “Most pleasant,” he finished, cheeks hot.
“Thank you, Mr. Stripe,” she said quickly. Half of her told herself she was crazy, walking out with a policeman! What on earth would her father have said? The other half was tingling with delight—it was what she had wanted most in the world for about three days. She swallowed hard. “That sounds very agreeable.”
He beamed with relief, then, collecting his composure, remembered a little dignity and stood to attention.
“Thank you, Miss Taylor. If my duties take me away I’ll write you a letter and”—in a wave of triumph—“I’ll call for you at three o’clock on Sunday afternoon!” And he left before she could demur.
She waited only until his footsteps had died away. Then she jammed the rest of the tea she was sorting all into one jar, and ran upstairs to tell Tassi
e, a remarkable amount of whose own secrets she herself shared.
Charlotte sat on the edge of her bed struggling with her growing desire to escape going down to dinner altogether. Pitt had gone with the address book to pursue the names in it and she felt a chill without him. Facing Eustace across the table would be appalling. He must surely know beyond question that she had shown the diary to Pitt, and that Pitt must be weighing whether to make it public.
And what of William? His own father, who so clearly despised him, with the wife to whom he had written such love letters! It would be unbearable. It was that which hardened in her mind the already half-made decision not to tell Emily. Let no one know who did not have to. It was not certain beyond any other possibility that Eustace had murdered George in a passion of jealousy; after all, he could hardly imagine any claim on Sybilla. If he was driven by jealousy it could only be if she had refused him in George’s favor.
Then a coldness drenched her, much stronger, more sure in its grasp. Of course. Sybilla dared not look to William for protection, both because she would not wish him ever to know of her first weakness—lunacy, as she had called it—and because she was afraid for him if he and Eustace quarreled. Eustace might in malice make sure everyone else knew he had cuckolded his own son. She could imagine the old lady’s face if she heard—and Tassie, who loved William with such sensitivity.
No. Far better, far wiser for Sybilla to seek her defense in George, who could be so startlingly considerate at times, when he understood the wound. He was loyal, without judgment; he would have helped her and kept silent.
Only he had done the unforeseen and become enchanted with her himself, and there had begun the unraveling of all the plan.
And then Jack—Jack had understood and helped her as well. But understood how much?
She would tell Emily nothing. Not yet.
But, dear heaven, she did not want to go through the charade of dinner! How could she excuse herself? To the company it would be easy: she had a headache, she was unwell. There would be no need to explain that; women were always getting headaches, and she had certainly had enough to justify one.