Paragon Walk

by Anne Perry

  “He is appalling! It must have been associating with men like that that gave Mr. Darwin his ideas. If he does not leave, then I shall.”

  “Would you care for me to escort you home?” Alaric asked instantly. “I doubt Mr. Cayley will leave.”

  She looked at him with loathing, but forced herself to refuse civilly.

  Charlotte burst into giggles, covering her face with her hands.

  “You were quite dreadful!” she said to him, furious with herself for laughing. She knew it was the pressure of fear and excitement as much as humor, and she was ashamed. “You do not have the sole prerogative to be outrageous, Charlotte,” he said quietly. “You must allow me a little fun as well.’

  A few days later Charlotte received a note from Emily, written in haste and some excitement. From something that Phoebe had said, Emily was now perfectly convinced that, in spite of her self-righteous prying, Miss Lucinda was right, and there was something going on in the Walk. She herself had certain more practical ideas as to how its nature could be uncovered, especially if it had something to do with Fanny and with Fulbert’s disappearance. And it was hard to believe it had not.

  Of course, Charlotte made immediate arrangements for Jemima, and by eleven o’clock in the morning she was at Emily’s door. Emily was there as soon as the maid. She almost scurried Charlotte into the morning room.

  “Lucinda’s right,” she said urgently. “She is dreadful, of course, and all she wants is to discover some piece of scandal she can tell everyone else and feel thoroughly superior about. She’ll dine out on it for the rest of the Season. But she won’t find out anything, because she’s going about it all the wrong way!”

  “Emily!” Charlotte took hold of her, gripping her arm. She could only think of Fulbert. “For heaven’s sake, don’t! Look what happened to Fulbert!”

  “We don’t know what happened to Fulbert,” Emily said reasonably. She shook Charlotte’s arm off with impatience. “But I want to find out—don’t you?”

  Charlotte wavered.

  “How?”

  Emily scented victory. She did not push. She tried a little honest flattery.

  “Your suggestion—I suddenly realized that was the way. Thomas can’t do it. It would have to be casual—”

  “Who?” Charlotte demanded. “Explain yourself, Emily, before I explode!”

  “Maids!” Emily was leaning forward now, her face shining. “Maids notice everything, between them. Maybe they don’t know what all the different pieces mean, but we might!”

  “But Thomas—” Charlotte started, although she knew Emily was right.

  “Nonsense!” Emily brushed it aside. “No maid is going to talk to the police.”

  “But we can’t just go questioning other people’s maids!”

  Emily was exasperated.

  “For goodness’ sake, I shan’t be so obvious! I shall go for some quite different reason, a recipe I admire, or I could take some old dresses I have for Jessamyn’s maid—”

  “You can’t do that!” Charlotte said in horror. “Jessamyn will give her her own old things. She must have dozens! You couldn’t explain any reason—”

  “Yes, I could. Jessamyn never gives her old dresses away. She never gives anything away. Once it has been hers, she keeps it or burns it. She doesn’t allow anyone else to have her things. Besides, her lady’s maid is about the same size as I am. I have looked out a muslin from last year that will be perfect. She can wear it on her afternoon off. We shall go when I know that Jessamyn is out.”

  Charlotte was very dubious about the idea and feared it might prove embarrassing, but since Emily patently intended going regardless, her curiosity obliged her to go as well.

  She had misjudged Emily. They learned nothing that seemed of any value at Jessamyn’s, but the maid was delighted with the dress and the whole interview appeared as natural as a chance conversation with no purpose at all but pleasantry.

  They proceeded to Phoebe’s, arriving at the only time of the day when she was to be absent, and learned of an excellent mixture for making furniture wax with a most pleasing smell. It seemed Phoebe had taken to visiting the local church at odd hours, lately as often as every other day.

  “Poor creature,” Emily said as they left. “I think all these tragedies have quite turned her mind. I don’t know whether she is praying for Fanny’s soul, or what.”

  Charlotte did not understand the idea of praying for the dead, but there was nothing difficult in sympathizing with the need for comfort, a quiet place where faith and simplicity had found refuge over the generations. She was glad that Phoebe had discovered it, and, if it gave her calm, helped hold at bay the terrors that crowded in on her, so much the better.

  “I’m going to see Hallam Cayley’s cook,” Emily announced. “You know the weather is quite different today. I am thoroughly cold, even though I put on a warmer dress. I do hope we aren’t going to have a wretched spell, the Season isn’t nearly over!”

  It was true, here was an east wind, and it was definitely chill, but Charlotte was not interested in the weather. She pulled her shawl tighter and kept up with Emily.

  “You can’t just walk in and ask to speak to his cook! What on earth excuse have you? You’ll make him suspicious, or else he will just think you ill-mannered.”

  “He won’t be in!” Emily said impatiently. “I told you, I have chosen my times with great care. She cannot cook pastry to save herself; you could shoe horses with it. That’s why Hallam always eats pastry when he is out. But she is a genius with sauces. I shall beg her for a recipe to impress Aunt Vespasia. That will flatter her, and then I can pass on to general conversation. I am convinced Hallam knows about what is going on. He has behaved like a man haunted for the last month or more. I think, in his own way, he is as frightened as Phoebe!”

  They were almost to the door. She stopped to let her shawl fall a little more gracefully, adjusted her hat, and then pulled the bell.

  The footman opened the door immediately; his face fell with surprise when he saw two unaccompanied women.

  “Lady—Lady Ashworth! I’m sorry, ma’am, but Mr. Cayley is not at home.” He ignored Charlotte. He was not sure who she was and had more than enough to deal with without her.

  Emily smiled disarmingly.

  “How unfortunate. I was wondering if he might be kind enough to permit me to speak with your cook. Mrs. Heath, isn’t it?”

  “Mrs. Heath? Yes, m’lady—”

  Emily favored him with a dazzling look.

  “Her sauces are quite famous, and, as I have my husband’s aunt, Lady Cumming-Gould, staying for the Season, I wanted to impress her with something special now and then. My cook is excellent, but—I know it is an impertinence, but I wondered if Mrs. Heath would be generous enough to share a recipe? Of course, it would not be the same, not made by her, but it would still be remarkable!” She smiled hopefully.

  He thawed. This was his realm and understandable.

  “If you care to wait in the withdrawing room, m’lady, I’ll ask Mrs. Heath to come up and see you.”

  “Thank you, I’m obliged.” Emily swept in, and Charlotte followed behind her.

  “You see!” Emily said triumphantly when they were seated and the footman had disappeared. “All it needs is a little forethought.”

  When Mrs. Heath arrived, it was immediately apparent that she had decided to revel in her moment of glory. Negotiations were going to be protracted, and she would require every possible compliment before parting with the secret of her creations. It was equally obvious that she would share them; the fame already glittered in her eyes.

  They were about at the point of accomplishment, when a small, very smutty maid came clattering down the stairs and burst into the withdrawing room, mobcap askew and hands black.

  Mrs. Heath was outraged. She drew breath to deliver a blast of rebuke, but the girl spoke before her.

  “Mrs. Heath, please, mum! The chimney’s on fire in the green room, mum. I lit the fire to get
rid of that smell like you told me to, and now it’s all smoke everywhere, and I can’t put it out!”

  Mrs. Heath and Emily looked at each other in consternation.

  “It’s probably a birdnest in the chimney,” Charlotte said practically. Since her marriage, she had had to learn about such things. She had called the sweep more than once for her own house. “Don’t open the windows, or you’ll make the draught worse, and it’ll really burn. Get a long handled broom, and we’ll see if we can dislodge it.”

  The maid stood, unsure whether to obey a strange woman or not.

  “Well, go on, girl!” Mrs. Heath decided she would have given the same advice, if good manners had not prevented her from speaking first. “I don’t know why you had to ask me!”

  Emily seized the chance to reinforce her advantage, rather than risk being cut short before her real purpose by an inopportune domestic emergency.

  “It may be quite far up. Perhaps we had better see if we can help. If it is not done properly there may be a real fire.” And without waiting for agreement, she marched out of the door and followed the scuttering maid up the stairs. Charlotte went as well, curious to see more of the house, and to hear anything that might be said, not that she shared Emily’s expectation of any useful information regarding Fulbert or Fanny.

  The green bedroom was indeed full of smoke, and the fumes caught in their throats as soon as they opened the door.

  “Oh!” Emily coughed and stepped back. “Oh, that’s awful. It must be a very big nest.”

  “Perhaps you’d better get a bucket of water and put the fire out,” Charlotte said sharply to the maid. “Can you fetch a pitcher from the bathroom, and be quick. Then when it is out we can open all the windows.”

  “Yes, mum.” The girl scurried away, now thoroughly frightened, in case she should be blamed for the whole affair.

  Emily and Mrs. Heath stood coughing, happy for Charlotte to take command.

  The girl came back and offered the pitcher to Charlotte, eyes wide and alarmed. Mrs. Heath opened the door, then, when she saw no flames, decided to reassert herself. She took the pitcher and strode in, hurling the contents on the billowing fireplace. There was a belch of steam and soot flew out, covering her white apron. She leapt back, furious. The girl stifled a giggle and turned it into a choke.

  But the fireplace was dead and black, running trickles of sooty water into the hearth.

  “Now!” Mrs. Heath said with determination. She had a personal vendetta with the thing, and it was not going to beat her, especially not in front of visitors and her own upstairs maid. She seized the broom the girl had been using to sweep the floor and advanced on the chimney. She launched a brisk swipe up the cavernous hold and struck something unyielding. Her face fell in surprise.

  “It’s an awful big nest! I shouldn’t wonder if the bird’s still there, by the feel. You were right, miss.” She poked fiercely at it again and was rewarded with a fall of soot. She momentarily forgot her language and abused it roundly.

  “Try poking to one side, and see if you can unbalance it,” Charlotte suggested.

  Emily was watching closely, her nose wrinkled.

  “It doesn’t smell very pleasant,” she said unhappily. “I’d no idea wet fires were so—so sickly!”

  Mrs. Heath put the broom in slightly sideways and jabbed hard. There was another trickle of soot, a scraping noise, and then, quite slowly, the body of Fulbert Nash slithered down the chimney and fell spreadeagled across the wet fireplace. It was blackened with soot and smoke, and maggots had infested the flesh. The smell was unspeakable.

  Nine

  PITT FOUND NO pleasure at all in the discovery of Fulbert’s body, not even the satisfaction of solving a mystery. He had expected Fulbert to be dead, but the deep stab wound in his back made suicide impossible, even if someone else had disposed of the body by stuffing it up the chimney. Although he could think of no reason why any innocent person should do so, except perhaps Afton Nash, to hide his brother’s guilt. To everyone else, a suicide was the perfect answer to the rape and murder of Fanny.

  And Fulbert had been dead a long time, probably since the night he disappeared. The body was decomposed in the heat of summer and riddled with maggots. It was not possible he could have been alive to attack Selena.

  It was another murder.

  They brought a closed coffin and took him away. Then Pitt turned to the inevitable. Hallam Cayley was waiting. He looked appalling; his face was gray and running with sweat, and his hands shook so badly the glass rattled against his teeth.

  Pitt had seen shock before; he was used to watching while people came face to face with horror or guilt or overwhelming grief. He had never learned to tell one kind of shock from another. Looking at Cayley now, he did not know what the man felt, except that it was total and appalling. Pitt’s mind observed and thought of questions to ask, but a feeling of pity drenched him and put reason into a silent background.

  Hallam set the glass down.

  “I don’t know,” he said hopelessly. “So help me God, I did not kill him.”

  “Why did he come here?” Pitt asked.

  “He didn’t!” Hallam’s voice was rising; his control was thin, slipping away. “I never saw him! I don’t know what the hell happened!”

  Pitt had not expected admission, at least not yet. Perhaps he was one of those who would deny everything, even when there was proof. Or it was conceivable he really did know nothing. Pitt would have to speak to all the servants as well. It would be long and wretched. Finding guilt was always finding tragedy. When he had first joined the police, he had thought it would be dispassionate, the solution of mysteries. Now he knew otherwise.

  “When did you last see Mr. Nash?” he asked.

  Hallam looked up, surprised, his eyes bloodshot.

  “Good God, I don’t know! It was weeks ago! I don’t remember when I saw him, but not the day he was killed. I do know that.”

  Pitt raised his eyebrows slightly.

  “You believe he was killed when he disappeared?” he asked.

  Hallam stared at him. The color rushed up his face, then ebbed away again. The sweat stood out on his lip.

  “Wasn’t he?”

  “I should imagine so,” Pitt said wearily. “It’s not possible to tell now. I suppose he could have stayed up there indefinitely, as long as that room wasn’t used. The smell would have got worse, of course. Did you give the maids orders to clean in there?”

  “For heaven’s sake, man, I don’t care about housekeeping! They clean when they want to. That’s what I have servants for—not to have to think about things like that.”

  There was no point in asking him if his servants were acquainted with Fulbert in any personal way. That had all been gone into already, and everyone had denied it, which was to be expected.

  It was Forbes who elicited a surprising new fact or at least a statement. The footman admitted now that he had opened the door to Fulbert on the afternoon of his disappearance, while Hallam was out, and Fulbert had gone upstairs, saying he wished to speak to the valet. The footman had assumed that he had let himself out afterward, but now it was obvious that he had not. He excused himself for the lie in his first account, by saying he did not believe it important and had not wished to implicate his master on so flimsy a coincidence, being naturally afraid for his employment.

  It ended in an unsatisfactory impasse. The valet denied having seen Fulbert, and nothing could be proven. Forbes said there had long been all manner of rivalries and old feuds among the household staff, and he had no idea whom to believe. According to previous testimony, either of the manservants could conceivably have killed Fanny, if one or more were lying, and neither of them could have attacked Selena.

  Finally Pitt went back to the station, posting a constable to see that none of the Cayley servants moved from the Walk. The whole thing left a sour and unfinished taste in his mouth, but he could accomplish no more with questions now.

  Fulbert was buried immedia
tely, and the funeral was a small and somber affair, almost as if the dreadful corpse were in full view, instead of discreetly nailed into a polished dark, wood box.

  Pitt attended, this time not out of pity for the dead, but because he needed to observe the mourners. Charlotte had not come, and neither had Emily. They were both still suffering from the horror of discovering the body, and in truth Charlotte had known him so little, her presence might be interpreted not so much as respect but rather as mere curiosity. Emily’s condition gave her ample excuse to remain at home. George, grim and white-faced, body stiff against the wind, was the only representative of the family.

  Pitt borrowed a black coat to cover his own rather multicolored clothes and stood discreetly at the back, half under the yew trees, hoping no one would do more than glance at him, possibly even assume him to be part of the undertaking party.

  He waited as the cortege arrived, black crepe fluttering in the wind. No one spoke except the minister, and his sing-song voice floated over the hard clay and the withered grass between the gravestones.

  There were no women except the immediate family, Phoebe and Jessamyn Nash. Phoebe looked appalling; her skin was ashen, and there were dark blotches under her eyes. She stood with shoulders hunched; from the back she might have been an old woman. He had seen abused children with that same resigned look, terrified, and yet too sure of the blow to bother to run.

  Jessamyn was totally different. Her back was as straight as a soldier’s, her chin high, and even the drifting black veil over her face could not hide the luminosity of her skin and the glittering eyes, fixed on the yew branches shifting in the wind at the far side, where the walk went down to the lych-gate. The only betrayal of emotion was the hard-clenched hands, so hard that, but for the gloves, surely the nails would have bitten into the skin.

  All the men were there. Pitt studied them one by one, his memory turning over everything he knew about them, searching for reasons, inconsistencies, anything from which to distill an answer.

  Fulbert had been murdered because he knew who had raped Fanny, and then Selena. Surely there could be no other cause, no other secret in the Walk worth killing for?