by Anne Perry
“I see your husband is not with you!” Selena’s reply was vicious and unhesitating.
Charlotte was able to smile this time. She was proud of what Thomas was doing, even though she knew they would have held it in contempt.
“No, he is otherwise engaged. He has a great deal to do.”
“How unfortunate,” Selena murmured, but without conviction. The satisfaction was gone out of her.
It was not long after that that Charlotte got her opportunity to meet Algernon Burnon. She was introduced by Phoebe Nash, whose hat was now straight, though her hair still looked uncomfortable. Charlotte knew the sensation all too well: a pin or two in the wrong place, and it could feel as if all the weight of one’s hair were attached to one’s head with nails.
Algernon bowed very slightly, a courteous gesture Charlotte found a little discomposing. He seemed more concerned for her comfort than his own. She had prepared herself for grief, and he was asking her about her health, and if she found the heat trying.
She swallowed the sympathy she had had on the edge of her tongue and made as sensible a reply as she could. Perhaps he found it all too painful to dwell on and was glad of the chance to speak to someone who had not known Fanny. How little one could really tell from faces.
She was floundering, too conscious that he had been close to Fanny and too busy with her own confusion, wondering whether he had loved her, or if it had been a very much arranged affair, or if perhaps he even was relieved to be free of it. She hardly noticed his conversation, though part of her brain was telling her it was both literate and easy.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized. She had no idea what he had just said.
“Perhaps Mrs. Pitt finds our baked meats a little diverse—as I do?”
Charlotte turned sharply to find the Frenchman only a few feet away from her, his fine, intelligent eyes carefully hiding a smile.
She was not quite sure what he meant. He could not possibly have known the wanderings of her mind—or was he thinking the same things, perhaps even knowing them? Honesty was the only safe retreat.
“I am not experienced in them,” she replied. “I have no idea what they usually are.”
If Algernon had any understanding of the ambiguity in her words, he did not betray it.
“Mrs. Pitt, may I present Monsieur Paul Alaric,” he said easily. “I don’t believe you have met? Mrs. Pitt is Lady Ashworth’s sister,” he added by way of explanation.
Alaric bowed very slightly.
“I am well aware who Mrs. Pitt is.” His smile removed any discourtesy from his words. “Did you imagine such a person could visit the Walk and not be talked of? I’m sorry it is a tragic occasion that has afforded us the opportunity to meet you.”
It was ridiculous, but she found herself coloring under his calm gaze. For all his grace, he was unusually direct, as if his intelligence could penetrate the polite, rather empty mask of her face and see all the confused feelings behind. There was nothing unkind in his stare, only curiosity and faint amusement.
She pulled herself together sharply. She must be very tired from the heat and all this mourning to be so stupid.
“How do you do, Monsieur Alaric,” she said stiffly. Then, because that did not seem enough. “Yes, it is unfortunate that it frequently takes tragedy to rearrange our lives.”
His mouth curled in the slightest, most delicate smile.
“Are you going to rearrange my life, Mrs. Pitt?”
The heat scorched up her face. Please heaven, the veil would hide it.
“You—you misunderstand me, monsieur, I meant the tragedy. Our meeting can hardly be of importance.”
“How modest of you, Mrs. Pitt,” Selena drifted up, wafting black chiffon behind her, her face bright. “I judged from your marvelous gown that you had imagined otherwise. Do they always wear lavender for mourning where you come from? Of course, it is easier to wear than black!”
“Why, thank you,” Charlotte forced a smile and feared it might be more like bared teeth. She looked Selena up and down. “Yes, I imagine it is. I’m sure you would find it flattering, too.”
“I do not go around from funeral to funeral, Mrs. Pitt, only to those of people I know,” Selena snapped back with tart meaning. “I don’t imagine I shall be requiring it again before this style has gone quite out of fashion.”
“Sort of ‘one funeral per Season,’” Charlotte murmured. Why did she dislike this woman so much? Was it only an identification with Emily’s fears, or some instinct of her own?
Jessamyn moved toward them, pale but entirely composed. Alaric turned toward her, and a look of venom momentarily hardened Selena’s face before she mastered it and ironed it out. She spoke quickly, preempting Alaric.
“Dear Jessamyn, what a terrible ordeal for you. You must be devastated, and you have comported yourself so well. The whole affair has been so dignified.”
“Thank you,” Jessamyn took the glass Alaric handed her from a waiting footman’s tray and sipped at it delicately. “Poor Fanny is at rest. But I find it hard to accept it as I suppose one should. It seems so monstrously unjust. She was such a child, so innocent. She did not even know how to flirt! Why her, of all people?” Her eyelids lowered slightly over her wide, cool eyes, and she did not quite look at Selena, but some minute gesture of her shoulder, an arch in her body, seemed addressed to her. “There are other people so—so much more—likely!”
Charlotte stared at her. The hatred between the two women was so tangible she could not believe Paul Alaric was unaware of it. He stood elegantly, with a slight smile, and made some innocuous answer, but surely he must feel as uncomfortable as she did? Or did he enjoy it? Was he flattered, excited to be fought over? The thought hurt her; she wanted him to be above such a demeaning vanity, to be embarrassed by it, as she was.
Then another thought occurred to her as Jessamyn’s words sank in, “... other people so much more likely.” That was a dig at Selena, of course, but could it have been precisely Fanny’s innocence that had attracted the rapist? Perhaps he was tired and bored with sophisticated women who were only too available. He wanted a virgin, frightened and unwilling, so he could dominate her. Maybe that was what excited, sent his blood racing, the touch and the smell of terror!
It was an ugly thought, but then the intimate violence in the dark, the humiliation, the symbolic, stabbing knife, the blood, the pain, life gushing away—they were all ugly. She shut her eyes. Please, dear God, it had nothing to do with Emily! Don’t let George be anything worse than easygoing, a little foolish, a little vain!
They were talking across her, and she had not heard them. She was conscious only of the prickling hostility and of Alaric’s elegant black head as he half listened to one, then the other. Somehow it seemed to Charlotte as if his eyes were on her, and there was an understanding in them which was uncomfortable and at the same time stirring.
Emily found her again. She was looking very tired, and Charlotte thought she had already been standing too long. She was about to make some suggestion of returning home when she saw, behind Emily, Hallam Cayley, the only man she had observed to be moved by Fanny’s death beyond the usual trappings of observance. He was facing toward Jessamyn, but his expression was vacant, as if he were unaware of her. Indeed, the whole room, with its shafts of sunlight under the half drawn blinds, its glittering table spread with the debris of food, its clusters of murmuring figures in black, seemed to make no impression on his senses at all.
Jessamyn caught sight of him. Her face changed, the full lower lip came forward and the skin tightened fractionally across her cheeks. For a moment it was frozen. Then Selena spoke to Alaric, smiling, and Jessamyn turned back.
Charlotte looked at Emily.
“Haven’t we paid all respects necessary now? I mean, surely we could decently go home? The heat in here is oppressive, and you must be tired.”
“Do I look it?” Emily asked.
Charlotte lied immediately and without thought.
“Not
at all, but surely better to leave before we do. I know I feel it!”
“I expected you would be enjoying yourself, trying to solve the mystery.” There was a faint cutting edge in Emily’s voice. Indeed, she was tired. The skin under her eyes looked papery.
Charlotte pretended not to notice.
“I don’t think I have learned a thing, except what you had already told me—that Jessamyn and Selena hate each other over Monsieur Alaric, that Lord Dilbridge has very liberal tastes, and Lady Dilbridge enjoys being put upon because of them. And that none of the Nashes are very pleasant. Oh, and that Algernon is behaving himself with great dignity.”
“Did I tell you all that?” Emily smiled faintly. “I thought it was Aunt Vespasia. But I suppose we may as well go home. I admit, I have had enough. I find myself much more affected by it than I had thought to be. I didn’t care much for Fanny when she was alive, but now I can’t help thinking of her. This is her funeral, and do you know, hardly anybody has really spoken of her!”
It was a sad and pathetic observation; yet it was true. They had spoken of the effect of her death, its manner and their own feelings, but no one had spoken of Fanny herself. Lost, and a little sick, Charlotte followed Emily to where George was half waiting for them. He, too, seemed eager to leave. Aunt Vespasia was deep in conversation with a man about her own age, and since it was only a few hundred yards, they left her to come when she chose.
They found Afton and Phoebe in desultory expression of mutual sympathies with Algernon. They all three stopped as George approached.
“Leaving?” Afton enquired. His eyes flickered over Emily and then Charlotte.
Charlotte felt her stomach curl up and instantly longed to be outside. She must control herself and leave with courtesy. After all, the man must be under great strain.
George was muttering something to Phoebe, a ritual politeness about the hospitality.
“How kind of you,” she replied automatically, her voice high and tight. Charlotte saw that her hands were clenched across the billows of her skirt.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Afton snapped. “A few are here out of courtesy, but most are no more than inquisitive. Rape is a better scandal than mere adultery any day. Besides, adultery has become so common that, unless there is something ludicrous attached to it, it is hardly worth recounting anymore.”
Phoebe colored uncomfortably, but she seemed incapable of finding an answer.
“I came out of affection for Fanny.” Emily looked up at him coldly. “And for Phoebe!”
Afton inclined his head a little.
“I’m sure she’ll appreciate it. If you are able to call upon her some afternoon, she will no doubt regale you with her feelings in the matter. She is quite convinced there is some madman lurking around, just waiting for the chance to leap upon her and ravish her next.”
“Please!” Phoebe tugged at his sleeve, her face painfully red. “I do not think so at all.”
“Did I misunderstand you?” he inquired, not lowering his voice, but staring at George. “I thought from the way you disported yourself that you suspected his presence on the upstairs landing last night. You had your gown so wrapped around you I feared you might strangle yourself if you were to turn carelessly. What on earth did you call the footman for, my dear? Or should I not ask you such a thing in front of others?”
“I didn’t call the footman. I—I merely—well, the curtain blew in the wind. I was startled, and I suppose—,” her face was scarlet now, and Charlotte could imagine the foolishness she was feeling, almost as if the whole company could see her frightened and disheveled in her nightclothes. She burned to think of something crushing to say for her, to cut at Afton with equally lacerating words, but nothing came.
It was Fulbert who spoke, lazily, a slow smile on his face. He put his arm around Phoebe, but his eyes were on Afton.
“There’s no need for you to be afraid, my dear. What you were doing is quite your own affair.” His face softened into amusement, some secret laughter inside him. “I really doubt it is one of your footmen, but, if it were, he would hardly be reckless enough to attack you in your own house. And you are more fortunate than any other woman in the Walk—at least you know perfectly well it wasn’t Afton. We all do!” He smiled across at George. “Would God the rest of us could be as far beyond suspicion?”
George blinked, unsure of his meaning, but knowing it held cruelty somewhere.
Charlotte instinctively turned to Afton. She had no idea what occasioned it, but cold, irrevocable hatred flared up in his eyes, and the shock of it rippled through her, leaving her feeling sick. She wanted to grip hold of Emily’s arm, touch something warm, human, and then run out of the glittering black-crepe room into the air, into the green summer, and keep on running until she was home in her own narrow, dusty little street with its whited steps, shoulder-to-shoulder houses, and women who worked all day.
Five
CHARLOTTE COULD HARDLY wait until Pitt came home. She rehearsed a dozen times in her mind what she meant to tell him, and each time it came out differently. She completely missed the bookshelves in her dusting and forgot to salt the vegetables. She gave Jemima two lots of pudding, much to the child’s delight, but at least she did have her changed and sound asleep when Pitt finally came.
He looked tired, and the first thing he did was to take his boots off and empty his pockets of the enormous number of things he had shoved into them throughout the day. She brought him a cold drink, determined not to make the same mistake as last time.
“How was Emily?” he asked after a few minutes.
“Well enough,” she answered, almost holding her breath to avoid plunging into the story. “The whole affair was rather horrible. I suppose they felt the same as we would underneath, but nothing showed. It was all—empty.”
“Did they talk about her—Fanny?”
“No!” She shook her head. “No, they didn’t. You’d hardly have known whose funeral it was. I hope when I die whoever’s there talks about me all the time!”
He smiled suddenly, a broad grin like a child.
“Even if they do absolutely all the time, my darling,” he replied, “it will still seem quiet without you!”
She looked around for something harmless to throw at him, but the only thing to hand was the lemonade jug, which would hurt, not to mention break the jug, which they could ill afford. She had to settle for making a face.
“Didn’t you learn anything?” he pressed.
“I don’t think so. Only what Emily had already told me. I got lots of odd impressions, but I don’t know what they mean, or even if they mean anything at all. I had umpteen things to tell you before you came, but now they seem to have frittered away. All the Nashes are unpleasant, except perhaps Diggory. I didn’t really get to meet him, but he has a bad reputation. Selena and Jessamyn loathe each other, but that can’t be relevant; it’s all to do with the most gorgeous Frenchman. The only people who seemed to be really upset were Phoebe—she really was terribly white and shaky—and a man called Hallam Cayley. And I don’t know whether he was upset for Fanny, or because his own wife died only a little while ago.” It had seemed so much when it was all a tumult of feelings in her mind, but now that she wanted to put words to it, there was nothing. It sounded so silly, so ephemeral that she was a little ashamed. She was a policeman’s wife, she should have had something concrete to tell him. How did he ever solve a case if all witnesses were as woolly as she was?
He sighed and stood up, walking in his socks over to the kitchen sink. He ran the cold water and put his hands under it, then splashed it up over his face. He held out his hands for the towel, and she brought it.
“Don’t worry.” He took it from her. “I didn’t expect to learn anything there.”
“You didn’t expect to?” She was confused. “You mean you were there?”
He dried his face and looked up at her over the towel.
“Not to learn anything—just—because I wanted to.” She felt th
e tears prickle hot behind her eyes and her throat ache. She had not even seen him. She had been busy watching everyone else, and thinking how she looked in Aunt Vespasia’s dress.
At least Fanny had had one real mourner, someone who was simply sorry she was dead.
Emily had no one with whom she could discuss her feelings. Aunt Vespasia did not consider it good for her to dwell on such things. It would produce a melancholic baby, she said. And George was unwilling to speak of it at all. In fact, he went noticeably out of his way to avoid it.
Everyone else in the Walk seemed determined to forget the entire subject, as if Fanny had merely gone away for a holiday and might be expected to return at any time. They resumed their lives, as much as propriety would permit, still wearing sober dress, of course, as to do anything else would be tasteless. But there appeared to be an unspoken consensus that the very indecency of the manner of death made the usual observances of mourning a reminder of it, and therefore a little vulgar, possibly even offensive to others.
The only exception was Fulbert Nash, who had never minded giving offense. In fact, he appeared at times positively to relish it. He made sly, delicate suggestions about almost everyone. There was nothing decisive, nothing that one could question him with, but the swift color in people’s faces betrayed when he had hit a mark. Perhaps they were old secrets he was referring to; everyone had something of which they were ashamed, or at least would very much prefer to keep from their neighbors. Perhaps the secrets were not witty so much as merely foolish? But then no one wished to be laughed at either, and some would go to great lengths to prevent it. Ridicule could be as deadly to one’s social aspirations as a report of any of the ordinary sins.
It was a week after the funeral, and still hot, when Emily finally decided to go and ask Charlotte directly what the police were doing. There had been a lot more questions put, mostly to servants, but if anyone were either suspected or totally cleared, she had not heard of it.