CHARLOTTE, TOO, WAS UNABLE to dismiss the matter from her mind. She could not have given anyone reason for believing that Jerome was innocent; in fact, she was not sure that she believed it herself. But the law did not require you to prove yourself innocent; it was sufficient that there should be some reasonable doubt.
And she was sorry for Eugenie, even though a large part of her still could not really like the woman. Her presence was an irritant; she epitomized everything that Charlotte was not. But she could be quite wrong about her; maybe Eugenie was sincere. Perhaps she really was a gentle and patient woman who wished to obey, a woman to whom loyalty was the highest virtue. Perhaps she genuinely cared for her husband.
And if it was true that her husband was innocent, it must follow that the person who had killed Arthur Waybourne would remain free after having committed, in Charlotte’s estimation, an even graver crime—because it was slower and there had been time to understand and to change—that of allowing Jerome to be convicted and hanged in his place! That was as close to unpardonable as any sanely committed human act could be. The thought of it made her so angry she found herself clenching her teeth till they hurt.
And hanging was so final. What if Jerome was innocent and they found out too late?
Whatever Pitt was going to do, whatever he could do—and it might not be much—she must at least try herself. And now that Emily was back, and Great-Aunt Vespasia, they would help, too.
Gracie would have to look after Jemima and Daniel again. Only three weeks: no time for letters, calling cards, and social niceties. She would put on a morning dress and take an omnibus, and then a hansom cab to Paragon Walk and visit Emily. Ideas whirled around in her head: possibilities, unanswered questions, things the police could not do and probably would not even think of.
She shouted for Gracie, startling the girl to running, her feet clattering along the corridor. She flew into the parlor and arrived breathless to find Charlotte standing in the middle of the floor, perfectly composed.
“Oh! Ma’am!” Gracie’s face fell in confusion. “I thought as you was hurt terrible, or something. Whatever’s ’appened?”
“Injustice!” Charlotte said, with a sweep of her arm. Melodrama would be far more effective than reasonable explanations. “We must do something before it is too late.” She included Gracie in the “we” to make her an instant party to it, and to secure her wholehearted cooperation. A great deal of it would be necessary in the next three weeks.
Gracie shivered with excitement and let out her breath in a little squeak. “Oh, ma’am!”
“Yes,” Charlotte said firmly. She must move to the details while enthusiasm was hot. “You remember Mrs. Jerome who came here? Yes, of course you do! Good. Well, her husband has been sent to prison for something I don’t think he did”— she didn’t want to cloud the issue with questions of reasonable doubt—“and he will be hanged if we do not discover the truth!”
“Ooh, ma’am!” Gracie was appalled. Mrs. Jerome was a real person, and just like a heroine should be: sweet and pretty, and obviously terribly in need of rescuing. “Ooh, ma’am. Are we going to help her then?”
“Yes, we are. The master will be doing what he can, of course—but that may not be enough. People keep secrets very close, and a man’s life may depend on this—in fact, several people’s lives. We shall need a lot of others to help, too. I am going to see Lady Ashworth, and while I am away I want you to look after Daniel and Miss Jemima.” She fixed Gracie with a gaze that almost hypnotized her, so intense was Gracie’s concentration. “Gracie, I do not want you to tell anyone else where I am, or why I have gone there. I am merely out visiting, do you understand? If the master should ask you, I have gone calling upon my family. That is the truth and you have no need to fear saying it.”
“Oh, no, ma’am!” Gracie breathed out. “You’re just gone calling! I won’t say a word! It’s secret with me. But do be careful, ma’am! Them murderers and the like can be terrible dangerous! What on earth should we all do if anything ’appened to you!”
Charlotte kept a perfectly sober face.
“I shall be very careful, Gracie, I promise you,” she answered. “And I shall take care not to be alone with anyone in the least questionable. I am only going to inquire a little, see if I can learn rather more about a few people.”
“Ooh—I shan’t say a thing, ma’am. I’ll look after everything ’ere, I swear. Don’t you worry one bit.”
“Thank you, Gracie.” Charlotte smiled as charmingly as she could, then swept out and left Gracie, mouth agape from fearful thoughts, standing in the middle of the parlor.
Emily’s maid received her with surprise well concealed by years of training. There was nothing more than a slight lift of her eyebrows beneath the starched cap. The black dress and lace-trimmed apron were immaculate. Charlotte wished for a fleeting moment she could afford to dress Gracie that way, but it would be terribly impractical. Gracie had more to do than answer the door, even if anyone called. She had to scrub floors, sweep and beat carpets, clean out the grates and black them, wash dishes.
Parlormaids were part of another life, one Charlotte only regretted in silly, light-headed moments when she first walked into houses like this, before she remembered all the things about that life that were boring, the suffocating rituals she had not been able to keep with any skill when she herself was part of it.
“Good morning, Mrs. Pitt,” the maid said smoothly. “Her Ladyship is not receiving yet. If you will sit in the morning room, the fire is lit, and I will ask if you may join Her Ladyship for breakfast, if you care to?”
“Thank you.” Charlotte tilted her chin a little to show she was perfectly at ease, whatever the hour or its inconvenience. She had not broken convention; she was superior to it, and therefore not bound by such restrictions. The maid must understand that. “Will you please tell Her Ladyship it is a matter of the utmost urgency—a scandalous matter in which I need her assistance to prevent a great injustice from being enacted.” That should bring Emily even if she was in bed!
The maid’s eyes opened wide and bright. That gem of information would certainly find its way back to the servants’ hall; and everyone who had the courage to listen at keyholes would most certainly do so, and relay with relish everything gleaned. Perhaps she had overdone it? They might be plagued with unnecessary messages all morning, and superfluous offers of tea.
“Yes, ma’am,” the maid said a little breathlessly. “I shall inform Her Ladyship immediately!” She left, closing the door behind her very quietly. Then her heels clicked at so fast a pace along the passage she must have sent her skirts flying.
She reappeared in about four minutes.
“If you would care to join Her Ladyship in the breakfast room, ma’am?” She left no allowance for refusal, even if one had been contemplated.
“Thank you,” Charlotte accepted and walked past her; it was nice to have doors held for one. She knew where the breakfast room was, and did not need to be shown.
Emily was sitting at the table, her fair hair already exquisitely dressed for the day; she wore a morning gown of water-green taffeta that made her look delicate and expensive. Charlotte was instantly conscious of her own drabness; she felt like a damp winter leaf next to a flower in bloom. The excitement drained out of her and she sat down heavily in the chair opposite Emily. Visions of a hot, perfumed bath floated across her mind, then a flattering maid to dress her in brilliant, soft-falling silks, like butterflies.
“Well?” Emily demanded, crashing through her thoughts with reality. “What is it? What has happened? Don’t just sit there keeping me in suspense! I haven’t heard a decent scandal in months. All I get is endless love affairs that were perfectly predictable to anyone with eyes to see! And who cares about other people’s love affairs anyway? They only do it because they can’t think of anything more interesting. No one really minds—I mean no one feels anything scorching! It’s all a very silly game—Charlotte!” She banged her cup down with a porcelain tinkle, lucky not to chip it. “For goodness’ sake, what’s wrong?”
Charlotte recalled herself. Butterflies lived only a day or two anyway.
“Murder,” she said bluntly.
Emily was immediately sober, sitting perfectly upright.
“Tea?” she invited, then reached for the silver bell on the table. “Who has been murdered? Anyone we know?”
The maid appeared instantly. She had obviously been on the other side of the door waiting. Emily gave her a sour look.
“Bring fresh tea, please, Gwenneth, and toast for Mrs. Pitt.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I don’t need toast,” Charlotte replied, thinking of getting into the butterfly silks.
“Have it anyway—off you go, Gwenneth—we don’t want it at lunchtime!” Emily waited until the door was closed. “Who’s been murdered?” she repeated. “And how? And why?”
“A boy called Arthur Waybourne,” Charlotte answered quite bluntly. “He was drowned in the bath—and I’m not sure why—exactly.”
Emily screwed up her face impatiently.
“What do you mean ‘exactly’? Do you mean ‘approximately,’ then? You aren’t making a lot of sense, Charlotte. Who would want to kill a child? He’s not an unknown baby that might embarrass someone, because you just told me his name.”
“He was not a baby at all. He was sixteen.”
“Sixteen! Are you trying to be irritating, Charlotte? He probably drowned quite accidentally. Does Thomas think it was murder, or are you just doing this by yourself?” Emily sat back, a shadow of disappointment in her eyes.
The whole dark, miserable story was suddenly very real again.
“It’s very unlikely he drowned by accident,” Charlotte replied, looking across the table spread with fine bone china, fruit preserves in jars, and a scatter of crumbs. “And he certainly did not put his own body down a manhole into the sewers!”
Emily caught her breath and choked.
“Down the sewers!” she cried, coughing and banging her chest. “Did you say sewers?”
“Quite. He also had been homosexually abused, and had caught a most unpleasant disease.”
“How disgusting!” Emily took a deep breath and a sip of lukewarm tea. “What sort of a person was he? I presume he came from the city somewhere, one of those areas—”
“On the contrary,” Charlotte interrupted. “He was the eldest son of a gentleman of—”
At that point, the door opened and the parlormaid came in with fresh tea and a rack of toast. There was utter silence while she set them on the table, paused for a moment or two in case the conversation continued, then met Emily’s frozen glance and left with a swing of skirts.
“What?” Emily demanded. “What did you say?”
“He was the eldest son of a family of distinction,” Charlotte repeated clearly. “Sir Anstey and Lady Waybourne, of Exeter Street.”
Emily stared, ignoring the teapot, and the fragrant steam rising gently in front of her.
“That’s preposterous!” she exploded. “How in heaven’s name could that happen?”
“He and his brother had a tutor,” Charlotte said, beginning to tell the parts of the story that mattered. “May I have the tea? A man called Maurice Jerome, really rather an unpleasant man, very cold and very prim. He’s clever and he resents being patronized by richer people with fewer brains. Thank you.” She took the tea; the cup was very light and painted with flowers in blue and gold. “The younger son, the one still alive, has said that Jerome made improper advances to him. And so has the son of a friend.”
“Oh, dear!” Emily looked as though her tea had suddenly turned sour in her mouth. “How sordid. Do you want the toast? The apricot preserve is very good. How very nasty indeed. I really don’t understand that sort of thing. In fact, I didn’t even know much about it until I overheard one of George’s friends say something quite horrible.” She pushed the butter across. “So what is the mystery? You said something rather extreme to Gwenneth about great injustice. The scandal is obvious, but unless this wretched than is going to get away with it, where is the injustice? He has been tried and he will be hanged. And so he should be.”
Charlotte avoided the argument of whether anyone should be hanged or not. That would have to wait for another time. She took the butter.
“But it hasn’t really been proved that he was guilty!” she said urgently. “There are all sorts of other possibilities that haven’t been proved or disproved yet!”
Emily squinted at her suspiciously.
“Such as what? It all seems very plain to me!”
Charlotte reached for the apricot preserve.
“Of course it’s plain!” she snapped. “That doesn’t mean it’s true! Arthur Waybourne may not have been as innocent as everyone is supposing. Perhaps he had a relationship with the other two boys, and they were frightened, or revolted, and they killed him.”
“Is there any reason whatsoever to suppose that?” Emily was entirely unconvinced, and Charlotte had the feeling she was rapidly losing her attention.
“I haven’t told you everything,” she said, trying a different angle.
“You haven’t told me anything!” Emily said waspishly. “Not anything worth thinking about.”
“I went to the trial,” Charlotte continued. “I heard all the evidence and saw the people.”
“You didn’t say that!” Emily exclaimed, her cheeks coloring with frustration. She sat very upright in the Chippendale chair. “I’ve never been to a trial!”
“Of course you haven’t,” Charlotte agreed with a faint flicker of spite. “Ladies of quality don’t!”
Emily’s eyes narrowed in a look of warning. This was suddenly far too exciting a subject to give way to sisterly envy.
Charlotte accepted the hint. After all, she wanted Emily’s cooperation; indeed, it was what she had come for. Rapidly she told her everything she could remember, describing the courtroom, the sewerman who had found the body, Anstey Waybourne, the two boys, Esmond Vanderley and the other than who gave evidence on Jerome’s previous character, Albie Frobisher, and Abigail Winters. She did her best to recount accurately what they had said. She also tried as clearly as she could to explain her own mixture of feelings about Jerome himself, and about Eugenie. She ended by expounding her theories regarding Godfrey, Titus, and Arthur Waybourne.
Emily stared at her for a long time before replying. Her tea was cold; she ignored it.
“I see,” she said at last. “At least I see that we don’t see—not nearly enough to be sure. I didn’t know there were boys who made their living like that. It’s appalling—poor creatures. Although I have discovered that there are a great many more revolting things in high society than I ever used to imagine living at home in Cater Street. We were incredibly innocent men. I find some of George’s friends quite repellent. In fact, I have asked him why on earth he puts up with them! He simply says he has known them all his life, and when you have grown used to a person, you tend to overlook the unpleasant things they do. They sort of creep into your knowledge one by one, and you don’t ever realize just how horrible they are, because you half see the person the way you remember them and don’t bother to look at them properly anymore—not as you would someone you have just met. Maybe that’s what happened with Jerome. His wife never noticed how big the change was in him.” She raised her eyebrows and looked at the table, reached for the bell, then changed her mind.
“That could just as easily be true of Arthur Waybourne,” Charlotte reasoned.
“I suppose nobody was allowed to inquire.” Emily screwed up her face thoughtfully. “They couldn’t. I mean I can imagine the family’s reaction to having the police in the house at all! Death is bad enough.”
“Exactly! Thomas can’t get any further. The case is closed.”
“Naturally. And they will hang the tutor in three weeks.”
“Unless we do something.”
Emily considered, frowning. “What, for instance?”
“Well, there must be more to know about Arthur, for a start. And I would like to see those two boys without their fathers present. I should dearly like to know what they would say if they were questioned properly.”
“Highly unlikely you’ll ever know.” Emily was a realist. “The more there is to hush up, the more their families will make sure they are not pressed too hard. They will have learned their answers by heart now and they won’t dare go back on it. They’ll say exactly the same thing whoever asks them.”
“I don’t know,” Charlotte countered. “They might say it differently if they are not on their guard. We might see something, sense something.”
“In fact, what you came for was to get me to find you a way into the Waybournes’ house,” Emily said with a little laugh. “I will—on one condition!”
Charlotte knew before she spoke. “That you come, too.” She smiled wryly. “Of course. Do you know the Waybournes?”
Emily sighed. “No.”
Charlotte felt her heart sink.
“But I’m sure Aunt Vespasia does, or knows someone else who does. Society is really very small, you know.”
Charlotte remembered George’s Great-Aunt Vespasia with a tingle of pleasure. She stood up from the table.
“Then we’d better go and see her,” she said enthusiastically. She’ll be bound to help us when she knows why.”
Emily also stood up. “Are you going to tell her this tutor is innocent?” she asked doubtfully.
Charlotte hesitated. She needed the help desperately, and Aunt Vespasia might be disinclined to intrude herself into a grieving family, bringing two inquisitive sisters to uncover ugly secrets, unless she believed gross injustice was about to be done. On the other hand, when Charlotte recalled Aunt Vespasia, she realized that lying to her would be impossible, and worse than pointless.
“No.” She shook her head. “No, I’ll tell her there may be a gross injustice done, that’s all. She’ll mind about that.”
“I wouldn’t guarantee her loving truth for its own sake,” Emily replied. “She’ll be able to see all its disadvantages too. She’s extremely practical, you know.” She smiled and rang the bell at last, to permit Gwenneth to clear the table. “But then, of course, she would hardly have survived in society for seventy years if she were not. Do you want to borrow a decent dress? I suppose we’ll go calling immediately, if it can be arranged. There’s hardly time to lose. And, by the way, you’d better let me explain all this to Aunt Vespasia. You’ll let all sorts of things slip and shock her out of her senses. People like her don’t know about your disgusting rookeries and your boy prostitutes with their diseases and perversions. You were never any good at saying anything without saying everything else at the same time.” She led the way to the door and out into the hall, practically falling over Gwenneth, who was balanced against the door with a tray in her hand. Emily ignored her and swept across to the stairs.
“I’ve got a dark red dress that would probably look better on you than it does on me anyway. The color is too hard for me—makes me look sallow.”
Charlotte did not bother to argue, either over the dress or the insult to her tact; she could not afford to, and Emily was probably right.
The red dress was extremely flattering, rather too much so for someone proposing to call on the recently bereaved. Emily looked her up and down with her mouth pursed, but Charlotte was too pleased with her reflection in the glass to consider changing it; she had not looked so dashing since she had spent that unspeakable evening in the music hall—an incident she profoundly hoped Emily had forgotten.
“No,” she said firmly before Emily spoke. “They are in mourning, but I am not. Anyway, if we let them know that we know they are, then we can hardly go at all! I can wear a black hat and gloves—that will be enough to tone it down. Now you had better get dressed, or we shall have wasted half the morning. We don’t want to find Aunt Vespasia already gone out when we get there!”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Emily snapped. “She’s seventy-four! She doesn’t go calling on people at this hour! Have you forgotten all your breeding?”
But when they arrived at Great-Aunt Vespasia’s house they were informed that Lady Cumming-Gould had been up for some considerable time, and had already received a caller that morning; the maid would have to see whether she was available to receive Lady Ashworth and her sister. They were invited to wait in a morning room fragrant with the earthy smell of a bowl of chrysanthemums, reflected in gold-edged French cheval glasses and echoed in a most unusual Chinese silk embroidery on the wall. They were both drawn to admire the embroidery in the minutes left them.
Vespasia Cumming-Gould threw open the doors and came in. She was exactly as Charlotte had remembered her: tall, straight as a lance, and as thin. Her aquiline face, which had been among the most beautiful of her generation, was now tilted in surprise, with eyebrows arched. Her hair was exquisitely piled in silver coils, and she had on a dress with delicate Chantilly lace over the shoulders and down to the waist. It must have cost as much as Charlotte would have spent on clothes in a year; yet, looking at it, she felt nothing but delight at seeing Aunt Vespasia, and a surging of spirit inside herself.
“Good morning, Emily.” Aunt Vespasia walked in and allowed the footman to close the doors behind her. “My dear Charlotte, you appear extremely well. That can only mean that either you are with child again or you have another murder to meddle with.”
Emily let out her breath in a gasp of frustration.
Charlotte felt all her good intentions vanish like water through a sieve.
“Yes, Aunt Vespasia,” she agreed instantly. “A murder.”
“That’s what comes of marrying beneath you,” Aunt Vespasia said without a flicker of expression, patting Emily on the arm. “I always thought it would be rather more fun—if, of course, one could find a man of any natural wit—and grace. I cannot bear a man who allows himself to be put upon. It is really very frustrating. I require people to know their places, and yet I despise them when they do! I think that is what I like about your policeman, my dear Charlotte. He never knows his place, and yet he leaves it with such panache one is not offended. How is he?”
Charlotte was taken aback. She had never heard Pitt described that way before. And yet perhaps she understood what Aunt Vespasia meant; it was nothing physical, rather a way of meeting the eyes, of not permitting himself to feel insulted, whatever the intent of others. Maybe it had something to do with the innate dignity of believing.
Aunt Vespasia was staring at her, waiting.
“In excellent health, thank you,” she replied. “But very worried about an injustice that may be about to take place—an unpardonable one!”
“Indeed?” Aunt Vespasia sat down, arranging her dress on the sofa with a single, expert movement. “And I suppose you intend to do something about this injustice, which is why you have come. Who has been murdered? Not that disgusting business with the Waybourne boy?”
“Yes!” Emily said quickly, wrestling the initiative before Charlotte could provoke some social disaster. “Yes, it is not necessarily what it seems.”
“My dear girl.” Aunt Vespasia’s eyebrows rose in amazement. “Very little ever is—or life would be insufferably boring. I sometimes think that is the whole purpose of society. The basic difference between us and the working classes is that we have the time and the wit to see that very little appears to be what it is. It is the very essence of style.
“What in particular is more than usually deceptive about this wretched business? It certainly appears plain enough!” She turned to Charlotte as she said this. “Speak, girl! I am aware that young Arthur was found in the most sordid of circumstances, and that some servant or other has been tried for the crime and, as far as I know, found to be guilty. What else is there to know?”
Emily shot Charlotte a warning glance, then abandoned hope and sat back in the Louis Quinze chair to await the worst.
Charlotte cleared her throat. “The evidence upon which the tutor was convicted was entirely the testimony of other people, nothing material at all.”
“Indeed,” Aunt Vespasia said with a little nod. “What could there be? Drowning someone will hardly leave tangible marks upon a bath. And presumably there was no struggle of any worth. What was this testimony, and from whom?”
“The two other boys who say Jerome tried to interfere with them also—that is Godfrey, Arthur’s young brother, and Titus Swynford.”
“Oh.” Aunt Vespasia gave a little grunt. “Knew Callantha Vanderley’s mother. She was married to Benita Waybourne’s uncle—Benita Vanderley, as she was then, of course. Callantha married Mortimer Swynford. Could never understand why she did that. Still, I suppose she found him agreeable enough. Never cared much for him myself—made too much of a noise about his good sense. A trifle vulgar. Good sense should never be discussed—it’s like good digestion, better assumed than spoken of.” She sighed. “Still, I suppose young men are bound to be pleased with themselves for some reason or other, and good sense is a better one in the long run than a straight nose, or a long pedigree.”
Emily smiled. “Well, if you know Mrs. Swynford,” she said hopefully, “perhaps we can call on her? We may learn something.”
“That would be a distinct advantage!” Aunt Vespasia answered sharply. “I have learned precious little so far! For goodness’ sake, continue, Charlotte! And come to some point or other!”
Charlotte forbore from mentioning that it was Vespasia who had interrupted her.
“Apart from the two boys,” she resumed, “no one else in either family had anything ill to say about Jerome, except that they did not like him much—which nobody else does either.” She took a breath and hurried on before Aunt Vespasia could break in again. “The other main evidence came from a woman”—she hesitated for an acceptable term that was not open to complete misunderstanding—“of loose behavior.”
“A what?” Aunt Vespasia’s eyebrows shot up again.
“A—a woman of loose behavior,” Charlotte repeated rather awkwardly. She had no idea how much a lady of Aunt Vespasia’s generation might know about such things.
“Do you mean a street woman?” Aunt Vespasia inquired. “Because if you do, then for goodness’ sake girl, say so! ‘Loose behavior’ could mean anything! I know duchesses whose conduct could well be described by such a term. What about this woman? What has she to do with it? Surely this wretched tutor did not kill the boy in jealousy over some whore?”
“Really!” Emily said under her breath, more in amazement than any moral comment.
Aunt Vespasia gave her a chilly glance.
“It is quite repellent, I agree,” she said bluntly. “But then so is the idea of murder at all. It does not become nice merely because the motive is something like money!” She turned back to Charlotte. “Please explain yourself a little more clearly. What has this woman to do with it? Has she a name? I am beginning to forget whom I am speaking about.”
“Abigail Winters.” There was no point whatever in trying to be delicate anymore. “Arthur Waybourne was found by the police surgeon to have a disease. Since the tutor did not have it, he must have contracted it elsewhere.”
“Obviously!”
“Abigail Winters said that the tutor, Jerome, had taken Arthur to her. He was a voyeur as well! Arthur contracted the disease from her—she does have it.”
“How singularly unpleasant.” Aunt Vespasia wrinkled her long nose very slightly. “Still, an occupational risk, I imagine. But if the boy has it, and this Jerome person was meddling with him—why did he not also have it? You say he did not?”
Emily sat upright suddenly, her face alight.
“Charlotte?” she said with a sharp lift of her voice.
“No,” Charlotte said slowly. “No—and that doesn’t make sense, does it! If the affair was still going on, he should have. Or are some people immune to it?”
“My dear girl!” Vespasia stared, fumbling for her pince-nez to observe Charlotte more closely. “How on earth should I know? I imagine so, or a great deal of society would have it who apparently do not—from what one is told. But it would bear thinking on! What else? So far, we have the words of two youths of a most unreliable age—and a woman of the streets. There must be more?”
“Yes—a—a male prostitute, aged seventeen.” Her anger about Albie came stinging through her voice. “He began when he was thirteen—he was doubtless more or less sold into it. He swore Jerome had been a regular customer of his. That was the chief way we know that he is ...” She avoided the word “homosexual” and left its meaning hanging in the air.
Aunt Vespasia was happy to allow her the liberty. Her face was somber.
“Thirteen,” she repeated, frowning. “That is truly one of the most obscene offenses of our society, that we permit such things to happen. And the youth—he too has a name, presumably? He says that this wretched tutor was his customer? What about the boy, Arthur—was he also?”
“Apparently not, but then he would not be likely to admit it if he could avoid doing so,” Charlotte reasoned, “since Arthur was murdered. No one admits to knowing a person who has been murdered, if they can avoid it—not if they would be suspected.”
“Quite. What an extremely distasteful affair. I presume you have told me all this because you believe the tutor, what’s-his-name, to be innocent?”
Now that it came to the point, it was impossible even to prevaricate.
“I don’t know,” Charlotte said bluntly. “But it’s so convenient, it closes it up so tidily that I think we haven’t bothered to prove it properly. And if we hang him, it’s too late after that!”
Aunt Vespasia sighed very gently. “I imagine Thomas is not able to prove the matter any further, since the trial will be considered to have ended all questions.” It was an observation rather than a request for information. “What alternative solutions do you have in mind? That this miserable child Arthur may have had other lovers—possibly even have set up in business in a mild way for himself?” Her fine mouth turned down delicately at the corners. “An undertaking fraught with all manner of dangers, one would have thought. One wonders for a start whether he procured his own custom, or whether he had a business partner, a protector, who did it for him. He can hardly have used his own home for such a concern! What order of money was involved, and what happened to it? Was money at the root of it, after all, for whatever reason? Yes, I see that there are a number of avenues to explore, none of which would be pleasing to the families.
“Emily said you were a social disaster. I fear she was being somewhat generous to you—you are a catastrophe! Where do you wish to begin?”
In fact, they began with an exceedingly formal call upon Callantha Swynford, since she was the only person connected with the affair whom Vespasia had any personal acquaintance with. And even then, it took them some mind-searching to concoct an adequate excuse, including two conversations upon that marvelous new instrument, the telephone, which Aunt Vespasia had had installed and used with the greatest enjoyment.
They drove in her carriage as soon after luncheon as was considered acceptable to visit. They presented calling cards to the parlormaid, who was duly impressed by the presence of not merely one but two titled ladies. She showed them in almost immediately.
The withdrawing room was more than pleasant; it was both gracious and comfortable, a combination unfortunately rare. A large fire burned in the grate, giving a feeling of warmth and life. The room was cluttered with far less than the usual forest of family portraits; it was even devoid of the customary stuffed animals and dried flowers under glass.
Callantha Swynford was also a surprise, at least to Charlotte. She had expected someone portly and self-satisfied, perhaps inordinately pleased with her own good sense. Instead, Callantha was on the lean side, with white skin and freckles, which in her youth she had doubtless spent hours endeavoring to remove, or at least to mask. Now she ignored them, and they complemented her russet-colored hair in a surprisingly attractive way. She was not beautiful; her nose was too high and long for that, and her mouth too large. But she was certainly handsome, and, more than that, she possessed individuality.
“How charming of you to call, Lady Cumming-Gould,” she said with a smile, extending her hand and inviting the ladies to sit down. “And Lady Ashworth—” Charlotte had not presented a card, and she was at a loss. No one helped her.
“My cousin Angelica is indisposed.” Aunt Vespasia lied as easily as if she were reading the time. “She was so sorry not to renew your acquaintance in person, and told me to say how much she enjoyed meeting you. She asked me if I would call upon you instead, so you would not feel she was cool in your friendship. Since I had my niece Lady Ashworth and her sister Charlotte already in my company, I felt you would not be inconvenienced if they were to call also.”
“Of course not.” Callantha gave the only possible answer. “I am delighted to make their acquaintance. How very thoughtful of Angelica. I hope her indisposition is nothing serious?”
“I should imagine not.” Aunt Vespasia waved it away with her hand, very delicately, as though it were something vaguely indecent to discuss. “One gets these little afflictions from time to time.”
Callantha understood immediately; it was something it would be kinder not to refer to again.
“Of course,” she agreed. They all knew the danger of her comparing notes with Angelica was now taken care of.
“What a delightful room.” Charlotte looked about her and was able to comment quite genuinely. “I do admire your choice. I feel comfortable immediately.”
“Oh, do you?” Callantha seemed quite surprised. “I am delighted you think so. Many people find it too bare. I imagine they expect rather more in the way of family portraits and such.”
Charlotte seized her chance; it might not come again so felicitously.
“I always think a few pictures of quality that really catch the essence of a person are of far more value than a great number that are merely likenesses,” she replied. “I cannot help observing the excellent portrait over the mantel. Is that your daughter? Great-Aunt Vespasia mentioned that you have a son and a daughter. She is quite charming, and she looks already as if she may grow to resemble you.”
Callantha smiled, glancing at the painting.
“Yes, indeed, that is Fanny. It was painted about a year ago, and she is quite unbecomingly proud of it. I must curb her. Vanity is not a quality one dare encourage. And to be frank, she is not in the least a beauty. Such charm as she has will lie within her personality.” She pulled a small face, a little rueful, perhaps echoing memories of her own youth.
“But that is far better!” Charlotte approved with conviction. “Beauty fades, and often disastrously quickly, whereas with a little attention, character can improve indefinitely! I am sure I should like Fanny very much.”
Emily gave her a sour look, and Charlotte knew she felt she was being too obvious. But then Callantha had no idea why they had called.
“You are very generous,” she murmured politely.
“Not at all,” Charlotte demurred. “I often think beauty is a very mixed blessing, especially in the young. It can lead to so many unfortunate associations. Too much praise, too much admiration, and I have seen even some of the nicest people led astray, because they were innocent, sheltered by a decent family, so did not realize the shallowness or the vice that can exist behind the mask of flattery.”
A shadow passed across Callantha’s face. Charlotte felt guilty for bringing up the subject so blatantly, but there was no time to waste in being subtle.
“Indeed,” she continued, “I have even seen instances in my acquaintance where unusual beauty has led a young person to acquire power over others, and then quite abuse it, to their own undoing in the end—and most unfortunately, to the misfortune of those involved with them as well.” She took a deep breath. “Whereas true charm of personality can do nothing but good. I think you are most fortunate.” She remembered that Jerome had tutored Fanny in Latin. “And of course intelligence is one of the greatest of gifts. Foolishness can sometimes be overcome if one is safeguarded from its effects by a loving and patient family. But how much more of the world’s joys are open to you if you have sensibility of your own, and how many pitfalls avoided.” Did she sound as priggish as she felt? But it was difficult to approach the subject, retain a modicum of good manners, and not sound hopelessly pompous at the same time.
“Oh, Fanny has plenty of intelligence,” Callantha said with a smile. “In fact, she is a better student than her brother, or either of—” She stopped.
“Yes?” Charlotte and Emily said, leaning forward in hopeful inquiry.
Callantha’s face paled. “I was going to say ‘either of her cousins,’ but her elder cousin died some weeks ago.”
“I’m so sorry.” Again Emily and Charlotte spoke together, affecting total surprise. “How very hard to bear,” Emily went on. “It was a sudden illness?”
Callantha hesitated, perhaps weighing the chances of getting away with a lie. In the end she decided on the truth. After all, the case had been written up in the newspapers, and although ladies of excellent upbringing would not read such things, it was impossible to avoid hearing gossip—supposing anyone were even to try!
“No—no, he was killed.” She still avoided the word “murder.” “I’m afraid it was all very dreadful.”
“Oh, dear!” Emily was a better actress than Charlotte; she always had been. And she had not lived with the story from the beginning; she could affect ignorance. “How terribly distressing for you! I do hope we have not called at an inappropriate time?” It was really an unnecessary question. One could not cease all social life every time a relative died, unless it were in the immediate family, or else the number of one’s relatives and the frequency of death would cause one to be forever in mourning.
“No, no.” Callantha shook her head. “It is most pleasant to see you.”
“Perhaps,” Aunt Vespasia said, “it would be possible for you to come to a small soiree at my house in Gadstone Park, if you are accepting invitations. I should be delighted to see you, and your husband also, if he wishes and is free of business functions? I have not met him, but I’m sure he is charming. I will send the footman with an invitation.”
Charlotte’s heart sank. It was Titus and Fanny she wanted to talk to, not Mortimer Swynford!
“I am sure he would enjoy that as much as I,” Callantha said. “I had intended to invite Angelica to an afternoon entertainment, a new pianist who has been much praised. I have planned it for Saturday. I hope she will have recovered by then. But in any case, I should be delighted if you would all come. We shall be ladies, in the main, but if Lord Ashworth or your husband would care to come?” She turned from one to the other of them.
“Of course!” Emily glowed with anticipation. The object was achieved. The men would not come; that was understood. She darted a look across at Charlotte. “Perhaps we shall meet Fanny? I admit I am quite intrigued—I shall look forward to it.”
“And I also,” Charlotte agreed. “Very much.”
Aunt Vespasia rose. They had been long enough for the strict duty call they professed it to be, and certainly long enough for a first visit. Most important, their purpose was achieved. With great dignity she took leave for all of them, and, after the appropriate civilities had been exchanged, swept them out to the carriage.
“Excellent,” she said as they seated themselves, arranging their skirts so as to be crushed as little as possible before the next call. “Charlotte, did you say this wretched child was only thirteen when he began his disgusting trade?”
“Albie Frobisher? Yes, so he said. He looked only a little more now—he’s very thin and underdeveloped—no beard at all.”
“And how do you know, may I ask?” Aunt Vespasia fixed her with a cool eye.
“I was in the courtroom,” Charlotte replied without thinking. “I saw him.”
“Were you indeed?” Aunt Vespasia’s brows shot up and her face looked very long. “Your conduct becomes more extraordinary by the moment. Tell me more. In fact, tell me everything! Or, no—not yet. We are going to visit Mr. Somerset Carlisle. I daresay you remember him?”
Charlotte remembered him vividly, and the whole unspeakable affair around Resurrection Row. He had been the keenest of all of them in fighting to get the child-poverty bill passed through Parliament. He knew as much as Pitt did of the slums—indeed he had frightened and appalled poor Dominic by taking him to the Devil’s Acre, under the shadow of Westminster.
But would he be interested in the facts of one extremely unlikable tutor, who was very possibly guilty of a despicable crime anyway?
“Do you think Mr. Carlisle will be bothered over Mr. Jerome?” she asked doubtfully. “The law is not at fault. It is hardly a Parliamentary matter.”
“It is a matter for reform,” Aunt Vespasia replied as the carriage swayed around a corner rather fiercely and she was obliged to brace her body to prevent herself falling into Charlotte’s lap. Opposite them, Emily clung on quite ungracefully. Aunt Vespasia snorted. “I shall have to speak to that young man! He has visions of becoming a charioteer. I think he sees me as a rather elderly Queen Boudicca! Next thing you know, he will have put sabers on the wheels!”
Charlotte pretended to sneeze in order to hide her expression.
“Reform?” she said after a moment, straightening up under the cold and highly perceptive eye of Vespasia. “I don’t see how.”
“If children of thirteen can be bought and sold for these practices,” Vespasia snapped, “then there is something grossly wrong, and it needs to be reformed. Actually, I have been considering it for some time. You have merely brought it to the forefront of my mind. I think it is a cause worthy of our best endeavors. I imagine Mr. Carlisle will think so, too.”
Carlisle listened to them with great attention and, as Aunt Vespasia had expected, distress for the conditions of people like Albie Frobisher in general, and for the possible injustice of the case against Jerome.
After some thought, he posed several questions and theories himself. Had Arthur threatened Jerome with blackmail, threatened to tell his father about the relationship? And when Waybourne had faced Jerome, could Jerome have told him a great deal more of the truth than Arthur had envisioned? Did he tell Waybourne of their visits to Abigail Winters—even to Albie Frobisher—and that it was Arthur himself who had introduced the two younger boys to such practices? Could it then have been Waybourne, in rage and horror, who had killed his own son, rather than face the unbearable scandal that could not be suppressed forever? The possibilities had been very far from explored!
But now, of course, the police, the law, the whole establishment had committed itself to the verdict. Their reputations, indeed their very professional office, depended upon the conviction standing. To admit they had been precipitate in duty, perhaps even negligent, would make a public exhibition of their inadequacies. And no one does that unless driven to it by forces beyond control.
Added to that, Charlotte conceded, they may well believe in all honesty that Jerome was guilty. And perhaps he was!
And would smart, clean, pink young Gillivray ever admit that he might have helped Albie Frobisher just a little in his identification, planted the seed of understanding in a mind so quick, so subtle, and so anxious to survive that Albie had grasped what he wanted and given it to him?
Could Gillivray afford such a thought, even if it occurred to him? Of course not! Apart from anything else, it would be betraying Athelstan, leaving him standing alone—and that would be cataclysmic!
Abigail Winters might not have been lying entirely. Maybe Arthur had been there; his tastes may have been more catholic than for boys only. And perhaps Abigail had tacitly accepted some immunity for herself by including Jerome in her evidence. The temptation to tie a case up conclusively that you were morally sure of anyway was very real. Gillivray may have succumbed to it—visions of success, favor, promotion dancing before his eyes. Charlotte was ashamed of the thought when she expressed it to Carlisle, but felt it should not be dismissed.
And what did they wish of him? Carlisle asked.
The answer was quite explicit. They wished to have correct and detailed facts of prostitution in general, and that of children in particular, so that they might present them to the women of society, whose outrage at such conditions might in time make the abuse of children so abhorrent that they would refuse to receive any man of whom such a practice, or even tolerance, was suspected.
Ignorance of its horrors was largely responsible for the women’s indifference to it. Some knowledge, however dependent upon imagination for the reality of its fear and despair, would mobilize all their very great social power.
Carlisle vacillated at presenting such appalling facts to ladies, but Aunt Vespasia froze him with an icy stare.
“I am perfectly capable of looking at anything whatsoever that life has to afford,” she said loftily, “if there is some reason for it! I do not care for vulgarity, but if a problem is to be dealt with, then it must be understood. Kindly do not patronize me, Somerset!”
“I wouldn’t dare!” he replied with a flash of humor. It was almost an apology, and she accepted it with grace.
“I hardly imagine it will be a pleasant subject,” she acknowledged. “Nevertheless it must be done. Our facts must be correct—one grave error and we lose our case. I shall avail myself of all the help I can.” She turned in her chair. “Emily, the best opinion to begin with is that of the people who have the most influence, and who will be the most offended by it.”
“The Church?” Emily suggested.
“Nonsense! Everyone expects the Church to make noises, about sin. That is their job! Therefore no one really listens—it has no novelty whatsoever. What we need is a few of the best society hostesses, the ones people listen to and imitate, the leaders of fashion. That is where you will assist, Emily.”
Emily was delighted; her face shone with anticipation.
“And you, Charlotte,” Vespasia continued. “You will acquire some of the information we shall need. You have a husband in the police force. Use him. Somerset, I shall speak to you again.” She rose from the armchair and went to the door. “In the meanwhile, I trust you will do everything you can to look into the matter of this tutor Jerome and the possibility that there may be some other explanation. It is rather pressing.”
Pitt told Charlotte nothing about his interview with Athelstan, and so she was unaware that he had tried to reopen the case. But in any event, she had not imagined it would be possible once the verdict was in. If anything, she knew better than he did that those with influence would not permit the result to be questioned, now that the law had been met.
The next thing to do was to prepare for Callantha’s party, when she might have the chance to speak with Fanny Swynford. And if the occasion to speak to Titus did not offer itself gratuitously, she would then engineer some opportunity to speak with him also. At least Emily and Aunt Vespasia would be there to help her. And Aunt Vespasia was able to get away with almost any social behavior she chose, because she had the position—and, above all, the sheer style—to carry it off as if she were the rule and everyone else the exception.
She told Pitt only that she was going out with Aunt Vespasia. She knew that he liked Vespasia enough not to question it. In fact, he sent her his very best wishes in a message of what was for him unusual respect.
She accompanied Emily in her carriage, and had borrowed another dress for the day, since it was impractical for her to spend such allowance as she had for clothes on something she would wear probably only once. The minutiae of high fashion changed so frequently that last season’s dress was distinctly passé this season; it was seldom more than once or twice in six months that Charlotte attended an affair like the entertainment at Callantha Swynford’s.
The weather was perfectly appalling, driving sleet out of an iron-gray sky. The only way to look in the least glamorous was to wear something as gay and dazzling as possible. Emily chose light, clear red. Not wishing to look too similar, Charlotte chose an apricot velvet that made Emily slightly cross she had not chosen it herself. She was too proud, though, to demand they exchange, even though both were her gowns; her reasons would have been too obvious.
However, by the time they reached the Swynfords’ hallway and were welcomed into the large withdrawing room, which had been opened into the room beyond, fires blazing, lamps bright, Emily forgot the matter and launched herself into the business of the visit.
“How delightful,” she said with a brilliant smile at Callantha Swynford. “I shall look forward to meeting absolutely everyone! And so will Charlotte, I am sure. She has spoken of little else all the way here.”
Callantha made the usual polite replies, and conducted them to be introduced to the other guests, all talking busily and saying very little of consequence. Just over half an hour later, when the pianist had begun to play a composition of incredible monotony, Charlotte observed a very self-possessed child of about fourteen whom she recognized from the portrait to be Fanny. She excused herself from her present company—easily done, since they were all bored with each other and had been pretending to listen to the music—and made her way between other groups until she was next to Fanny.
“Do you like it?” she whispered quite casually, as if they were long acquaintances.
Fanny looked slightly uncertain. She had an intelligent, candid little face, with the same mouth as her mother, and gray eyes, but otherwise the resemblance was less than the portrait affected. And she did not look as if lying came to her by nature.
“I think perhaps I don’t understand it.” She found the tactful answer with some triumph.
“Neither do I,” Charlotte said agreeably. “I don’t care to have to understand music unless I like the sound of it.”
Fanny relaxed. “You don’t like it either,” she observed with relief. “Actually, I think it’s awful. I can’t imagine why Mama invited him. I suppose he’s ‘the thing’ this month or something. And he looks so dreadfully serious about it I can’t help thinking he doesn’t like it much himself. Maybe this isn’t the way he means it to sound, do you suppose?”
“Perhaps he’s worried he won’t be paid,” Charlotte answered. “I wouldn’t pay him.”
Seeing her smile, Fanny burst into laughter, then realized it was completely improper, and hid her mouth with her hands. She regarded Charlotte with new interest.
“You are so pretty you don’t look as if you’d say dreadful things,” she observed frankly, then realized that she had added to her social mistake even further, and blushed.
“Thank you,” Charlotte said sincerely. “I’m so glad you think I look nice.” She lowered her voice in conspiracy. “Actually, I borrowed my dress from my sister, and I think now she wishes she’d worn it herself. But please don’t tell anyone.”
“Oh, I shan’t!” Fanny promised instantly. “It’s beautiful.”
“Have you got any sisters?”
Fanny shook her head. “No, only a brother, so I can’t really borrow anything much. It must be nice to have a sister.”
“Yes, it is—most of the time. Although I think I might have liked a brother, too. I have some cousins, only I hardly ever see them.”
“So have I—but they’re mostly boys as well. At least the ones I see are. They’re second cousins really, but it’s much the same.” Her face became sober. “One of them just died. It was all rather horrible. He got killed. I don’t really understand what happened, and nobody will tell me. I think it must be something disgusting, or they’d say—don’t you think?”
Her words were quite casual, but Charlotte saw behind the puzzled, rather offhand look the need to be reassured. And reality would be better than the monsters created by silence.
Apart from her own need to press for information, Charlotte did not want to insult the child with comfortable lies.
“Yes,” she said honestly. “I should think there’s probably something that hurts, so people would rather not talk about it.”
Fanny looked at her for several moments before speaking again, measuring her up.
“He was murdered,” she said at last.
“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry,” Charlotte answered with perfect composure. “That’s very sad. How did it happen?”
“Our tutor, Mr. Jerome—everyone says he killed him.”
“Your tutor? How appalling. Did they have a fight? Do you suppose it was an accident? Perhaps he did not mean to be so violent?”
“Oh, no!” Fanny shook her head. “It wasn’t like that at all. It wasn’t a fight—Arthur was drowned in the bath.” She screwed up her face in bewilderment. “I simply don’t understand it. Titus—that’s my brother—had to give evidence in court. They wouldn’t let me go, of course. They don’t let me do anything really interesting! Sometimes it’s awful being a girl.” She sighed. “But I’ve thought a lot—and I can’t imagine what he knows that would be any good!”
“Well, men do tend to be a bit pompous,” Charlotte offered.
“Mr. Jerome was,” Fanny said. “Oh, he was very stuffy, too. He had an expression as if he was eating rice pudding all the time! But he was an awfully good teacher. I hate rice pudding—it always has lumps in it and it tastes of nothing, but we have to have it every Thursday. He used to teach the Latin. I don’t think he liked any of us very much, but he never lost his temper. I think he was sort of proud of that. He was terribly—I don’t know.” She shrugged. “He never had any fun.”
“But he hated your cousin Arthur?”
“I never thought he liked him a lot.” Fanny considered it carefully. “But I never thought he hated him either.”
Charlotte felt a quickening of excitement.
“What was he like, your cousin Arthur?”
Fanny wrinkled up her nose and hesitated.
“You didn’t like him?” Charlotte helped.
Fanny’s face ironed out, the tension relieved. Charlotte guessed it was the first time the decencies of mourning had allowed her to speak the truth about Arthur.
“Not very much,” she admitted.
“Why not?” Charlotte pressed, trying to hide at least some of her interest.
“He was awfully conceited. He was very good-looking, you know.” Fanny shrugged again. “Some boys are very vain—just as vain as any girl. And he behaved as if he was superior, but I suppose that’s just because he was older.” She took a deep breath. “I say, isn’t that piano dreadful? It sounds like a maid dropping a whole load of knives and forks.”
Charlotte’s heart sank. Just as they were really touching Arthur, the boy behind all the trappings of grief, Fanny had changed the subject.
“He was very clever,” Fanny went on. “Or perhaps I mean cunning. But that isn’t a reason to kill him, is it?”
“No,” Charlotte said slowly. “Not by itself. Why did they say the tutor killed him?”
Fanny scowled. “Now that’s what I don’t understand. I did ask Titus, and he told me it was men’s business, and not proper for me to know. It makes me sick! Boys really are so pompous sometimes! I’ll bet it’s nothing I don’t know anyhow. Always pretending they know secrets that they don’t.” She snorted. “That’s boys all the time!”
“Don’t you think this time it might be true?” Charlotte suggested.
Fanny looked at her with the scorn she felt for boys.
“No—Titus doesn’t know what he’s talking about really. I know him very well, you know. I can see right through him. He’s just being important to please Papa. I think it’s all very silly.”
“You mustn’t monopolize our guests, Fanny.” It was a man’s voice, and familiar. With a light flutter of nervousness, Charlotte turned around to face Esmond Vanderley. Dear heaven—did he remember her from that awful evening? Perhaps not; the clothes, the whole atmosphere, were so utterly different. She met his eyes, and the hope died instantly.
He smiled back at her with a sharp glint of humor, so close to laughter it dazzled.
“I apologize for Fanny. I think the music bores her.”
“Well, I find it a great deal less pleasing than Fanny’s company,” she replied a little more tartly than she intended. What was he thinking of her? He had given evidence about Jerome’s character, and he had known Arthur well. If he had the charity to ignore their first meeting, she was extremely grateful, but she could not afford to retire from the battle all the same. This could be her only opportunity.
She smiled back at him, trying to take some of the sting out of her words. “Fanny was merely being an excellent hostess and relieving my solitude, since I know so few people here.”
“Then I apologize to Fanny,” he said pleasantly; apparently he had taken no offense.
Charlotte searched her mind for some way to keep alive the subject of Arthur without being too offensively curious.
“She was telling me about her family. You see, I had two sisters, while she has only a brother and male cousins. We were comparing differences.”
“You had two sisters?” Fanny seized on it as Charlotte had hoped she would. She was ashamed to use tragedy in such a way, but there was no time to be delicate.
“Yes.” She lowered her voice and did not have to strain to include the emotion. “My elder sister was killed. She was attacked in the street.”
“Oh, how dreadful!” Fanny was shocked, her face full of sympathy. “That’s absolutely the most awful thing I’ve heard for ages. That’s worse than Arthur—because I didn’t even love Arthur.”
“Thank you.” Charlotte touched her gently on the arm. “But I don’t think you can say one person’s loss is greater than another’s—we really can’t tell. But yes, I did love her.”
“I’m so sorry,” Vanderley said quietly. “It must have been very distressing. Death is bad enough, without all the police investigation that follows. I’m afraid we’ve just suffered all that. But thank heaven it’s over now.”
Charlotte did not want to let the chance slip through her fingers. But how could she possibly pursue the less pleasant truths about Arthur in front of Fanny? And the whole subject was in appalling taste—she knew that before she even approached it.
“That must be a great relief to you all,” she said politely. It was a sliding away; she was beginning to talk inanities. Where were Emily and Aunt Vespasia? Why couldn’t they come to the rescue—either take Fanny away or else pursue the real nature of Arthur with Esmond Vanderley themselves? “Of course one never gets over the loss,” she added hastily.
“I suppose not,” Vanderley answered civilly. “I saw Arthur quite often. One does in a family, of course. But, as I said before, I was not especially fond of him.”
Suddenly, Charlotte had an idea. She turned to Fanny.
“Fanny, I’m terribly thirsty, but I don’t wish to be drawn into conversation with the lady by the table. Would you be so kind as to fetch me a glass of punch?”
“Of course,” Fanny said immediately. “Some of those people are awful, aren’t they? There’s one over there in the blue shiny gown who talks of nothing but her ailments, and it’s not as if they were even interesting, like rare diseases—just vapors, like anyone else.” And she left on her errand.
Charlotte faced Vanderley. Fanny would only be gone a few minutes, although with luck, since she was a child, she would be served last.
“How refreshingly honest you are,” Charlotte said, trying to be as charming as she could but feeling self-conscious and rather ridiculous. “So many people pretend to have loved the dead and seen only virtue in them whatever they actually felt when they were alive.”
He smiled with a slight twist. “Thank you. I admit it is a relief to confess that I saw in poor Arthur plenty that I did not care for.”
“At least they have caught the man who killed him,” she went on. “I suppose there is no question about it—he is definitely guilty? I mean the police are perfectly satisfied and that is an end to it? Now you will be left alone.”
“No question at all.” Then a thought seemed to flash into his mind. He hesitated, looked at her face, then took a deep breath. “At least I don’t imagine so. There was a peculiarly persistent policeman who made the inquiries, but I cannot see what else he could want to find now.”
Charlotte assumed a look of amazement. Heaven help her if he realized who she was.
“You mean he doesn’t believe he has the entire truth? How dreadful! How perfectly appalling for you! If it wasn’t the man they have, who can it have been?”
“God knows!” Vanderley looked pale. “Quite frankly, Arthur could be a beastly little animal! They say the tutor was his lover, you know. Sorry if I shock you.” It was an afterthought; he had suddenly remembered she was a woman who might possibly not even know of such things. “They say he seduced the boy into unnatural practices. Possibly, but I wouldn’t be totally surprised if Arthur was the one who did the seducing, and the poor than was drawn into it, flattered, and then ignored. Or maybe Arthur did that to someone else, and it was an old lover who killed him in a fit of jealousy. Now there’s a thought! He might even have been a thoroughgoing little whore! Sorry—I am shocking you, Mrs.—I was so taken with your gown the other evening, I cannot now recall your name!”
“Oh!” Charlotte’s mind raced for an answer. “I am Lady Ashworth’s sister.” That at least would make it seem unlikely she had any connection with the police. Again she felt her face scald with embarrassment.
“Then I apologize for such a—a violent and rather obscene discussion, Lady Ashworth’s sister!” A smile of genuine amusement flickered over his face. “But you invited it, and if your own sister was murdered you are already acquainted with the less pleasant side of investigations.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Charlotte said, still blushing. He was fair; she had invited it. “I’m not shocked,” she said quickly. “But it is a very unpleasant thought that your nephew was such a—a warped person as you suggest.”
“Arthur? Yes, isn’t it. It’s a pity someone has to hang for him, even a particularly unlovable Latin master with a temperament like vinegar. Poor wretch—still, I daresay if he weren’t convicted, he’d have gone on and seduced other boys. Apparently, he interfered with Arthur’s younger brother, too—and Titus Swynford. Shouldn’t have done that. If Arthur dumped him, he should have found someone else already so inclined—stuck to the willing, not have gone scaring the sense out of some child like Titus. He’s a nice boy, Titus. A bit like Fanny, only not so clever, thank heaven. Clever girls Fanny’s age terrify me. They notice everything and then remark it with piercing clarity, at the most unfortunate times. Comes of having too little to do.”
At that point Fanny returned, proudly carrying Charlotte’s punch, and Vanderley excused himself and wandered away, leaving Charlotte puzzled and vaguely excited. He had sowed seeds of ideas she had hardly even thought of, and, she believed, neither had Pitt.