FOR THREE DAYS there was no progress at all. Pitt followed up every material clue he could find, and Sergeant Harris questioned servants, both kitchen and outdoor. No one told them anything that seemed to be of importance. It became more and more apparent that Mina had been, as Charlotte guessed, an obsessive watcher. Little scraps of information, impressions gathered here and there gradually confirmed it. But what had she seen? Surely something more damning than merely the identity of a petty thief?
Then on the afternoon of the fourth day, a little after one o’clock, Charlotte was standing in the parlor opening the French doors onto the small back garden, breathing in the air that at last had warmth in it and the smell of sweet earth, when Gracie came in at a trot, her heels scuffing up the new rug.
“Oh, Mrs. Pitt, ma’am, there’s a letter come for you by special footman, in a carriage and all, and he says it’s terrible urgent. And please, ma’am, the carriage is still standing there in the street as large as life, and ever so grand!” She held out the envelope at arm’s length for Charlotte to take.
A glance was sufficient to see that it was Caroline’s writing. Charlotte tore the envelope open and read:
My dear Charlotte,
The most appalling thing has happened. I hardly know how to tell you, it seems so utterly tragic.
As you know, Eloise Lagarde was most distressed by Mina’s death and the circumstances of it, and Tormod took her to their country house to rest and recover her spirits.
My dear Charlotte, they have returned this morning after the most dreadful accident I have ever known! I feel quite sick to think of it, it is almost past enduring. While out driving, returning from a picnic one evening with friends, poor Tormod was at the reins of the carriage and he slipped from the box and fell, right under the wheels. As if that in itself was not terrible enough, a group of friends were right behind them. It was past dusk, and they did not see what had happened! Charlotte, they drove straight over him! Horses and carriage!
That poor young man, hardly older than yourself, is crippled beyond any hope! He lies on his bed in Rutland Place and, for all we can believe or pray, will do so for the rest of his life!
I am so distressed I cannot think what to say or do. How can we help? What response is there in the face of such total tragedy?
I felt you would wish to know as soon as possible, and I have sent the carriage for you, in case you wish to come this afternoon. I would dearly like your company, even if only to share with someone my shock at such pain. Your father is at business and shall be dining out this evening, and Grandmama is of no comfort at all.
I have also written to Emily and sent the letter by messenger.
Your loving mother,
Caroline Ellison.
Charlotte read the letter a second time, not that she doubted she had understood it, but to give herself time to allow its meaning, with the weight of pain it carried, to sink into her consciousness.
She tried to imagine the night, the dark road, Tormod Lagarde as she had last seen him, with his high, pale brow and wave of black hair, standing on the driving box; then perhaps a horse swerving, an unexpected turn in the road, and suddenly he was lying in the mud, the carriage above him, the noise and the rattle, the wheels passing over a leg or an arm, the crushing weight, bones snapped. A moment’s silence, the night sky, and then the smashing, pummeling hooves of the other carriage and the crushing weight, agony as his body was broken—
Dear God! Better, infinitely more merciful, if he had been killed outright, simply never to have known sensibility or light again.
“Ma’am?” Gracie’s voice came urgently. “Ma’am? Are you all right? You look terrible white! I think as you ought to sit down. I’ll get the salts, and a good cup of tea!” She turned to go, determined to rise to the occasion and do something useful.
“No!” Charlotte said at last. “No, thank you, Gracie. It’s all right. I’m not going to faint. It is most terrible news, but it is an acquaintance, not a member of my family or a close friend. I shall go and call upon my mother this afternoon. It is a friend of hers. I cannot say how long I shall be. I must put on something more suitable than this dress. It is far too cheerful. I have a dark dress which is quite smart. If the master comes home before I do, please show him this letter. I’ll put it in the desk.”
“You look terrible pale, ma’am,” Gracie said anxiously. “I think as you should have a nice cup of tea before you goes anywhere. And shall I ask the footman if he’d like one too?”
Charlotte had forgotten the footman; indeed her mind had slipped back to the past and she had not even remembered that the carriage was not her own.
“Yes, yes, please do that. That would be excellent. I shall go upstairs and change, and you may bring my cup of tea there. Tell the footman I shall not be long.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Caroline was very somber when Charlotte was shown in. For the first time since Mina’s death, she was dressed in black and there was no lace at her throat.
“Thank you for coming so soon,” she said the moment the maid had closed the door. “Whatever is happening to Rutland Place? It is one unspeakable tragedy after another!” She seemed unable to sit down; she held her hands tightly together and stood in the middle of the floor. “Perhaps it is wicked of me to say so, but I feel as if in a way this is even worse than poor Mina! It is only what the servants say, and I should not listen to it, but it is the only way of hearing anything,” she excused herself quite honestly. “According to Maddock, poor Tormod is”—she took a breath—“completely crushed! His back and his legs are broken.”
“It’s not wicked, Mama.” Charlotte shook her head in a tiny gesture, putting out her arm to touch Caroline. “If you have any faith, death cannot be so terrible—only, on occasion, the manner of it. And surely it would have been better, if he is as dreadfully injured as they say, that he should have died quickly? If he cannot recover? And I would not trust to Maddock for that. I daresay he got it from the cook, and she from one of the maids, who will have had it from an errand boy, and so on. Do you intend to call, to express your sympathies?”
Caroline’s head came up quickly. “Oh yes, I feel that would only be civil. One would not stay, of course, but even if only to acknowledge that one is aware and to offer any help that may be possible. Poor Eloise! She will be quite shattered. They are very close. They have always been so fond of each other.”
Charlotte tried to imagine what it would be like to love someone so dearly and have to watch him day after day, mutilated beyond reparation, awake and sane, and be unable to help. But imagination stopped short of any sort of reality. She could remember Sarah’s death, of course, but that had been quick— violent and horrible, to be sure—but thank God, there had been no lingering, no stretching out of pain day after day.
“What can we possibly do?” she asked helplessly. “Just to call and say we are sorry seems so wretchedly trivial.”
“There isn’t anything else,” Caroline answered quietly. “Don’t try to think of everything today. Perhaps in the future there may be something—at least companionship.”
Charlotte received that in silence. The sunlight streaming across the carpet, picking out the garlands of flowers, seemed remote, more like a memory than anything present. The bowl of pink tulips on the table looked stiff, like an ornamental design, hieratic and foreign.
The maid opened the door. “Lady Ashworth, ma’am.” The maid bobbed a curtsy, and immediately behind her Emily came in, looking pale and less than her usually immaculate self.
“Mama, what a fearful thing! How ever did it happen?” She caught hold of Charlotte’s arm. “How did you hear? Thomas is not here, is he? I mean it’s nothing—”
“No, of course not!” Charlotte said quickly. “Mama sent the carriage for me.”
Caroline shook her head in confusion. “It was an accident. They were out driving. It was fine, and they had had a picnic somewhere and returned late, by a longer and more pleasant way. It’s all perfectly ridiculous!” For the first time there was anger in her voice as the futility of it struck her. “It need never have happened! A skittish horse, I suppose, or some wild animal cutting across a country road, frightening them. Or maybe it was an overhanging branch from some tree.”
“Well, that’s what one keeps woodsmen for!” Emily said in an explosion of impatience. “To see that there are no overhanging branches across carriageways.” Then equally quickly her anger vanished. “What can we do to help? I don’t really see what there is, except one’s sympathy. And little use that will be!”
“It is still better than nothing.” Caroline moved toward the door. “At least Eloise will not feel that we are indifferent, and then if there comes a time when she wishes something, even if it is only company, she will know that we are ready.”
Emily sighed. “I suppose so. It seems like offering a bucket to bail out the sea!”
“Sometimes merely to know you are not alone is some comfort,” Charlotte said, as much to herself as to them. Out in the hallway Maddock was waiting.
“Shall you be returning for afternoon tea, ma’am?” he inquired, holding Caroline’s coat for her.
“Oh yes.” Caroline nodded and allowed him to put it around her shoulders. “We are merely going to call upon Miss Lagarde. We will hardly be long.”
“Indeed,” Maddock said gravely. “A most terrible tragedy. Sometimes these young men drive most rashly. I have always believed that racing was a highly dangerous and foolish exercise. Most conveyances are not designed for it.”
“Were they racing?” Charlotte asked quickly, turning to face him.
Maddock’s features were without expression. He was a servant and knew his place, but he had also been with the Ellisons since Charlotte was a young girl. Little she did could surprise him.
“That is what they are suggesting, Miss Charlotte,” he replied impassively. “Although it would seem a somewhat foolish occupation along a country road, and almost bound to cause injury to someone, even if only the horses. But I have no idea if it is true or merely backstairs speculation. One cannot prevent servants from exercising their imaginations about such a disaster. No amount of chastisement will silence them.”
“No, of course not,” Caroline said. “I wouldn’t waste time trying—as long as it is not quite irresponsible.” She raised her eyebrows a little. “And they are not neglecting their duties!”
Maddock looked faintly hurt. “Naturally, ma’am, I have never permitted that in my house.”
“No, of course not.” Caroline was mildly apologetic for having thoughtlessly insulted his integrity.
Emily was standing at the door, and the footman opened it for her. The carriage outside was already waiting.
The distance to the Lagardes’ was only a few hundred yards, but the day was wet and the footpath running with water, and this was the most formal of calls. Charlotte climbed in and sat in silence. What on earth could she say to Eloise? How could a person reach from her own happiness and safety across such a gulf?
None of them spoke before the carriage stopped again and the footman handed them down. Then he remained standing at the horses’ heads, waiting in the street as a mute sign to other callers that they were there.
A parlormaid, minus her usual white cap, opened the door and said in a tight little voice that she would inquire whether Miss Lagarde would receive them. It was some five minutes before she returned and conducted them into the morning room at the back of the house, overlooking the rainswept garden. Eloise rose from the sofa to greet them.
It was excruciating to look at her. The translucent skin was as white as tissue paper, with the same lifeless look. Her eyes were sunken and enormous, seeming to stretch till the bruises beneath were part of them. Her hair was immaculate, but had obviously been dressed by the maid, as had she; her clothes were delicate and neat, but she wore them as if they were artificial, winding-sheets on a body for which the spirit no longer had any use. She seemed even thinner, her laced-in waist more fragile. The shawl Charlotte had previously seen her wear was gone, as if she no longer cared if she was cold or not.
“Mrs. Ellison.” Her voice was completely flat. “How kind of you to call.” She might have been reading a foreign language, without any comprehension of its meaning. “Lady Ashworth, Mrs. Pitt. Please do sit down.”
Uncomfortably they obeyed. Charlotte felt her hands chill, and yet her face hot with a sense of embarrassment at having intruded into something too exquisitely painful even for the rituals of pride and the need for privacy to cover. She was overwhelmed by anguish like this; it filled the room.
Charlotte was stunned into silence. Even Caroline fumbled for words and found none. Only Emily’s unrelenting social discipline carried her through.
“No expression of our sympathy could possibly meet such distress as you must feel,” she said quietly. “But do be assured we grieve for you, and in time if there is anything we may do to be of comfort, we would be only too willing.”
“Thank you,” Eloise replied without expression. “That is generous of you.” It was as if she were hardly aware of them, only of the need to reply or at least to acknowledge each time someone spoke. Her sentences were formal, things she had prepared herself to say.
Charlotte searched her mind for anything at all that did not sound idiotic.
“Perhaps presently you would care for a little company,” she suggested. “Or if you have somewhere to go, perhaps you would prefer not to go alone?” It was a suggestion for Emily or Caroline rather than herself, since she had neither frequent opportunity to visit Rutland Place nor a carriage available.
Eloise’s eyes met hers for a moment, then slid away into something frighteningly like complete vacancy, as if all the world she knew was inside her head.
“Thank you. Yes, I expect that may be. Although I fear I shall hardly be pleasant company.”
“My dear, that is not at all true,” Caroline said. She lifted her hands as if to reach forward, but there was some barrier around Eloise, an almost tangible remoteness, and she let them fall again without touching her. “I have never known you anything but sympathetic,” she finished helplessly.
“Sympathetic!” Eloise repeated the word, and for the first time there was emotion in her voice, but it was hard, stained with irony. “Do you think so?”
Caroline could do nothing but nod.
Silence closed in on them again, stretching as long as they would suffer it to exist.
Again Charlotte racked her mind to think of something to say, just for the sake of sound. But it would be offensive, almost prurient, to inquire how Tormod was faring, or what the doctor might have said. And yet to speak of anything else was unthinkable.
The moments ticked on. The room seemed to grow enormous and the rain outside far away; even the sound of it was removed. The nightmare horses galloped through all their minds, the wheels crashed.
Eventually, when Charlotte was just about to say something, however absurd, to break the pressure, the maid returned to announce Amaryllis Denbigh. Much as Charlotte disliked Amaryllis, she felt a rush of gratitude merely to be relieved of the burden.
Amaryllis came a few steps behind the maid. She stood in the doorway and stared from one to the other of them aghast, although surely she must have seen the carriage outside.
Her eyes fastened on Charlotte accusingly. She was white-faced, and her usually lush hair was awry and the pink salve on her lips smudged.
“Mrs. Pitt! I had not expected to find you here!”
There was no civil reply to this, so Charlotte attributed it to natural distress and ignored it altogether.
“I am sure you have called in sympathy, as we have,” she said levelly. She waited a second or two for Eloise to say something; then, as she did not, Charlotte added, “Please do sit down. This sofa is most comfortable.”
“How can you talk of comfort at such a time?” Amaryllis demanded in a sudden gust of fury. “Tormod will get better, of course! But he is in agony.” She shut her eyes and hot tears ran down her cheeks. “Absolute agony! And you sit there as if you were at a soirée and talk about comfort!”
Charlotte felt anger and pain well up inside her, because Amaryllis spoke out of her own passion, without thought for the pain she must be causing Eloise.
“Then stand, if you prefer to,” she said tartly. “If you imagine it will be of some conceivable service, I’m sure no one will mind.”
Amaryllis seized a chair and sat down, her silk skirts everywhere.
“At least if he will get better, then that is hope,” Emily said, trying to ease the electric harshness a little.
Amaryllis swung round, opened her mouth, then closed it again.
Eloise was sitting perfectly motionless, her face blank, her hands lifeless in her lap.
“He will not,” she said without a shadow of expression, as if she had faced death itself and grown accustomed to it and accepted it without hope. “He will never stand again.”
“That’s not true!” Amaryllis’ voice rose almost to a shriek. “How dare you say anything so dreadful? That is a lie! A lie! He will stand, and in time he will walk. He will! I know it.” She stood up, went over to Eloise, and stopped in front of her, shaking with emotion, but Eloise neither looked up nor flinched.
“You are dreaming,” Eloise said very quietly. “One day you will know the truth. However long it takes, it is always there, and it will come to you.”
“You’re wrong! You’re wrong!” The color flamed up Amaryllis’ face. “I don’t know why you’re saying all this. You have your own reasons—God in heaven knows what they are!” There was accusation in her voice, shrill and ugly—frightened. “He will get better. I refuse to give in, to surrender!”
Eloise looked at her as if she were transparent or of no importance, as if she were unreal, as inconsequential as a magic-lantern slide.
“If that is what you wish to believe,” she said quietly, “then do so. It really makes no difference to anyone, except I would ask you not to keep repeating it, especially if the time should come when Tormod is well enough to receive you.”
Amaryllis’ body became rigid, her arms like wood, her bosom high.
“You want him to lie there!” she cried, almost gulping the words. “You evil woman! You want to keep him a prisoner here! Just you and he, all the rest of his life! You’re mad! You’re never going to let him go—you—”
Suddenly Charlotte woke into action. She jumped to her feet and slapped Amaryllis sharply across the face.
“Don’t be idiotic!” she said furiously. “And so utterly selfish! Who on earth do you imagine you are helping, standing there shrieking like a servant girl? Pull yourself together and remember that it is Eloise and not you who has to bear the hardship of this! It is she who has cared about him all her life! Can you possibly believe that poor Mr. Lagarde wishes to have his sister subjected to abuse on top of everything else? The doctor is the only one who can say whether he will recover or not, and false hope is more painful than learning to accept with patience the truth, whatever it may be, and await the outcome!”
Amaryllis stared at her. Quite possibly it was the first time in her life anyone had struck her, and she was too appalled to react. And the insult that she had behaved like a servant was a mortal one!
Emily stood up also and took Charlotte aside, then guided Amaryllis back to her seat. Eloise sat through it all as if she had neither seen nor heard them, absorbed in her own thoughts. They could have been shadows passing across the lawn for any mark they made upon her mind.
“It is natural you should be shocked,” Emily said to Amaryllis with a supreme effort at calmness. “But these dreadful things affect people in different ways. And you must remember that Eloise has spoken with the doctor and knows what he has said. It would be best if we were all to await his advice. I daresay Mr. Lagarde needs as little disturbance as can be.” She turned to Eloise. “Is that not so?”
Eloise was still looking at the floor.
“Yes.” She raised her eyebrows a little, almost with surprise. “Yes, we should not distress him with our feelings. Rest—that is what Dr. Mulgrew said. Time. Time will tell.”
“Is he to call again soon?” Caroline inquired. “Would you care to have someone with you when he does, my dear?”
For the first time Eloise smiled very faintly, as if at last she had heard not only the words, but their meaning.
“That is most kind of you. If it is not a trouble? I am expecting him momentarily.”
“Of course not. We shall be happy to stay,” Caroline assured her, her voice rising with pleasure that there was something they could do.
Amaryllis hesitated when they all turned to look at her, then changed her mind.
“I think there are other calls it would be courteous for us to make while I am in the neighborhood,” Emily said. “Charlotte can remain here. Perhaps Mrs. Denbigh would care to come with me?” She spoke with exquisite ease. “I should be most happy for your company.”
Amaryllis’ eyes widened; obviously it was a contingency she had not foreseen, and she was about to protest, but Caroline grasped the opportunity.
“What an excellent idea.” She rose, straightening her skirts to make them fall elegantly behind her. “Charlotte will be delighted to remain here, and I shall accompany you so we may continue with our visiting. I am sure Ambrosine would be pleased to see us. You would be happy to do that, wouldn’t you, my dear?” She looked to Charlotte nervously.
“Of course,” Charlotte agreed quite sincerely. For once, Mina and the mystery surrounding her death were banished from her mind and she was aware only of Eloise. “I think that is most certainly what you should do. And it is only a step. I can quite easily walk back when it is time.”
Amaryllis stood a few moments longer, still trying to think of some acceptable excuse to stay, but nothing came to her and she was obliged to follow Emily out into the hallway as Caroline took her arm and walked with her, and the maid closed the door behind them.
“Don’t let her distress you,” Charlotte said to Eloise after a moment. She would not be fatuous enough to suggest that what was said was not meant. It was blindingly obvious that it had been fully intended. “I daresay the shock has affected her judgment.”
Eloise’s face shadowed with a ghost of humor, wraithlike and bitter.
“Her judgment, perhaps,” she answered. “But only insofar as previously she would have thought the same, whereas good manners would have prevented her from saying it.”
Charlotte slid more comfortably into her seat. Dr. Mulgrew might yet be some time.
“She is not the pleasantest of persons,” she observed.
Eloise met her eyes; for the first time she appeared actually to see her, not some inward scene of her own.
“You do not care for her.” It was a statement.
“Not a great deal,” Charlotte admitted. “Perhaps if I knew her better—” She left the suggestion as a polite fiction.
Eloise stood up and walked slowly over toward the French windows and stood facing the rain.
“I think a great deal of what we like about people is what we do not know but imagine to be there. That way we can believe the unknown is anything we wish.”
“Can we?” Charlotte looked at her back, very slender, with shoulders square. “Surely to continue to believe what is not true is impossible, unless you leave reality altogether and sink into madness?”
“Perhaps.” Eloise suddenly lost interest again and her voice was weary. “It hardly matters.”
Charlotte considered arguing, purely as a principle, but she was overwhelmed by the grief and futility that drowned the room. While she was still struggling to think of anything to say that had meaning, the parlormaid returned to announce that Dr. Mulgrew had arrived.
Shortly afterward, when the doctor was upstairs with Tormod and Eloise was waiting on the landing, the maid returned to ask Charlotte if she would receive Monsieur Alaric until Eloise should reappear.
“Oh.” She caught her breath. Of course it would be impossible to refuse. “Yes, please—ask him to come in. I am sure Miss Lagarde would wish it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The girl withdrew, and after a moment Paul Alaric appeared, soberly dressed, his face grave.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Pitt.” He showed no surprise, so he must have been forewarned of her presence. “I hope you are well?”
“Quite, thank you, Monsieur. Miss Lagarde is upstairs with the doctor, as I imagine you already know.”
“Yes, indeed. How is she?”
“Most terribly distressed,” she answered frankly. “I cannot remember having seen anyone look so shocked. I wish there was something we could say or do to comfort—it is frightening to be so helpless.”
She had been afraid, almost angry in anticipation of it, that he might say something trite, but he did not.
“I know.” His voice was very quiet, his mind seeking to understand the pain. “I really don’t feel I can be of any use, but not to call seems so indifferent, as if I did not care.”
“Are you a great friend of Mr. Lagarde’s?” she inquired with surprise. She had not considered a realm of his life where he might find company with a man as much younger and as relatively slight in his pursuits as Tormod Lagarde. “Please do sit down,” she offered as composedly as she could. “I daresay they will be a little while as yet.”
“Thank you,” he said, moving the skirts of his coat so he did not sit on them. “No, I cannot say that I found much in common with him. But then tragedies of this sort override all trivial differences, don’t they?”
She looked up to find his eyes on her, curious and quite devoid of the impersonal glaze she was accustomed to in social conversation. She smiled slightly to show she was calm and grave and composed; then, as an afterthought, she smiled again, to show that she agreed with him.
“I see it has not kept you away,” he continued. “It would have been quite excusable for you to have found other business and avoided what can only be painful. You do not know the Lagardes well, I believe? And yet you felt a desire to come?”
“I fear to little enough good,” she said with sudden unhappiness. “Except perhaps that Mama and Emily removed Mrs. Denbigh.”
He smiled, and the irony inside him went all the way to his eyes.
“Ah, Amaryllis! Yes, I imagine that was something of a kindness in itself. I don’t know why, but there seems to be little love lost between her and Eloise. It would have been a source of considerable pain had they become sisters-in-law.”
“You don’t know why?” Charlotte was surprised. Surely he could not be so blind! Amaryllis was intensely possessive and her feeling for Tormod was almost devouring in its heat. The thought of living in a household with Eloise would be unbearable to her. When two women shared a house, there was always one who became superior; that it should be Eloise was unlikely, and for Amaryllis intolerable, but if Eloise were driven, however subtly, into a subordinate position, then Tormod would feel a sense of obligation, even of pity, toward her, and that might be worse. No, if Paul Alaric could not see why Amaryllis felt as she did, he was disappointingly lacking in imagination.
Then she looked at his face and realized he had not understood that Eloise would remain with them. But Tormod could hardly leave her alone! She was young and desperately vulnerable—even if it would be socially acceptable, which it was not.
“I had formed the impression that Mrs. Denbigh was extremely fond of Mr. Lagarde,” she began. What a ridiculously inadequate use of words for the violence of feeling she had seen in Amaryllis, the appetite of mind and body that boiled so close below the surface.
Slowly he smiled, without pleasure. He had seen it too.
“Perhaps I have too little insight, but a wife and a sister do not seem mutually exclusive.”
“Really, Monsieur.” Suddenly she was impatient with him. “If you were totally in love with someone, if you can conceive of such a feeling”—the acid of her rage for Caroline dripped through her voice—“would you care to share your daily life with somebody who knew that person infinitely better than you did? Who had a lifetime of memories in common, all the laughter and secrets, the friends, the childhood echoes—”
“All right. Charlotte—I understand.” Suddenly he reverted to the moment of friendship they had shared in those terrible days in Paragon Walk when other jealousies and hatreds had seethed into murder. “I have been insensitive, even stupid. I can see that to someone like Amaryllis it would be unendurable. However, if Tormod is as badly injured as I have heard, then the question of marriage will never arise.”
It was a statement of a truth that must have been obvious, yet the words fell like ice into the room. They were still silent, each wrapped in his own conception of its enormity, when Eloise returned.
She regarded Alaric without interest, as if she did not recognize him except as a shape, another figure that required acknowledgment.
“Good afternoon, Monsieur Alaric. It is kind of you to call.”
The sight of her face, stiff, eyes sunken with shock, affected him more than anything Charlotte could have said. He forgot his manners, a lifetime of polite expressions. There was nothing in him but untutored emotion.
He put out his hand and grasped hers, his other hand touching her arm gently, as if her skin might bruise.
“Eloise, I’m so sorry. Don’t give up hope, my dear. One cannot know what may be possible, with time.”
She stood quite still, not moving away from him, although it was not plain whether she was comforted by his closeness or simply oblivious to it.
“I don’t know what to hope for,” she said simply. “Perhaps that is very wrong of me?”
“No, not wrong,” Charlotte said quickly. “You would have to be omniscient to know what is best. You cannot blame yourself, and please do not even think of it.”
Eloise shut her eyes and turned away, pulling her arm from Alaric, leaving him standing confused, aware he was in the outside of some tremendous grief and unable to reach it or share it.
Charlotte felt a certain compassion for him, but her first feeling was for Eloise. She stood up and went to her, putting her arms around her and holding her tightly. Eloise’s body was yielding, lifeless, but Charlotte held on to her just the same. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Alaric’s face, tight with pity, and then silently he turned and left, closing the door behind him with a tiny click as the latch went home.
Eloise did not move, nor did she weep; it was as if Charlotte were holding a sleepwalker whose nightmare imprisoned her mind and soul elsewhere. Yet Charlotte felt that her presence, the contact of her warmth, was worth something.
Minutes went by. Someone clattered up the back stairs. Rain drove in a gust against the windows. Still neither of them spoke.
At last the door opened and the maid spoke, then was overcome with embarrassment. “Mr. Inigo Charrington, ma’am. Shall I tell him you are not at home?”
“If you would inform Mr. Charrington that Miss Lagarde is not well,” Charlotte said quietly. “Ask him to wait in the withdrawing room, and I shall go to him in a few moments.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The girl withdrew gratefully, without waiting for Eloise to confirm the command.
Charlotte stood for a moment longer, then guided Eloise to the sofa and laid her on it, kneeling beside her.
“Do you not think you would be better to lie down for a while?” she suggested. “Perhaps a dish of tea, or an herbal tisane?”
“If you wish.” Eloise obeyed because she had no will to argue.
Charlotte hesitated, still not sure if there was anything else she could do, then accepted at last that it was futile and went to the door.
“Charlotte!”
She turned. For the first time there was expression in Eloise’s face, even her eyes.
“Thank you. You have been kind. I may not appear as if I value it, but I do. You are right. Perhaps I shall drink something, and sleep for a while. I feel very tired.”
Charlotte felt a surge of relief, as if hard knots inside her had slipped loose.
“I’ll tell your maid to see that no one else is admitted for today.”
“Thank you.”
After delivering the directions to the maid and the footman, Charlotte went into the withdrawing room where Inigo Charrington stood by the mantelshelf, his face creased with anxiety, his coat still over his arm as if he were unsure whether to stay or go.
“Is she all right?” he said without any pretense at formality.
“No,” Charlotte replied with equal honesty. “No, she isn’t, but I don’t know of anything else we can do to help.”
“Should you have left her?” Inigo’s face creased. “The last thing I want is for my calling to cause further distress.”
“I sent the maid for a dish of tisane. Then I think she will rest for a time. Sleep will not alter the facts; she will still have to face them when she awakes, but she may have a little more strength for it.”
“It’s absolutely bloody!” he said with sudden anger. “First poor Mina, and now this!”
Charlotte was appalled to hear herself reply, “And your own sister—”
“What?” His quicksilver face was blank, almost comically empty.
This time embarrassment made her hold her tongue.
“Oh,” Then he realized what she had said. “Oh yes. You mean Ottilie.”
She wanted to apologize, to undo her intrusion, but she knew how close it could lie to Mina’s death, and murder. And she had learned only too dreadfully how one murder could beget another—and another. Mina was not necessarily the last victim.
“I believe her death was very sudden—I mean, quite unexpected. It must have been a devastating shock.” She had meant to be subtle, and ended by sounding crass.
“Unexpected?” Again he repeated her words. “Mrs. Pitt! Of course, how stupid of me. The policeman! But why the interest in Ottilie? She was eccentric, to put it at its mildest, but she certainly never harmed anyone—least of all Mina.”
“That is the third time someone has said that she was eccentric,” Charlotte said thoughtfully. “Was she really so very unusual?”
“Oh yes.” He smiled at the memory. “She did some appalling things. Once she got up on the dining table at dinner and sang a bawdy song. I thought Papa would die of it. Thank God no one else was there but the family, and one or two of my friends.” His eyes were alight, gleaming with the memory, laughter and softness in them.
“Embarrassing, if it were to be repeated.” Charlotte was confused by him; surely no man could act affection so perfectly and be lying? “One cannot afford a great deal of that if one is to remain in Society.”
His face was bright, with mockery in it, but no malice, as if he himself were part of the joke.
“You know, Mrs. Pitt, I have the strongest feeling that in spite of your afternoon-tea behavior, you are a good deal more your husband’s wife than your mother’s daughter! You think we quietly suppressed Ottilie somewhere, don’t you? Perhaps imprisoned her in our country house, locked in a disused wing, with an old family retainer to guard her?”
Charlotte felt the crimson heat flood up her face. She was blundering, and yet she must not stop; there would not be another chance.
“Actually, I thought you might have murdered her,” she said tartly, furious with herself for her clumsiness. “And perhaps Mina knew it? She was a Peeping Tom, you know. And maybe a thief as well!”
His eyes opened wide in surprise.
“A Peeping Tom, yes, but a thief? Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Several things have gone missing in Rutland Place recently.” She could still feel the scarlet under her skin. “None of them are very valuable of themselves, but at least one holds a secret which would be most embarrassing if it were to become known. Perhaps Mina was the thief, and she was killed to retrieve whatever it was?”
“No,” he said with conviction. “Whatever she was killed for, it had nothing to do with the thefts. Anyhow, most of the things have been returned. They always are.”
She stared at him. “Returned? How do you know?”
He took a long, slow breath. “I do. Just accept that. I have seen the things. Ask the people who lost them, they’ll tell you.”
“My mother lost something. She did not say she has it back.”
“Presumably it was the article containing the embarrassing secret you spoke of, since you are aware of it. Maybe she was afraid you would think she stole it back. You have a highly suspicious mind, Mrs. Pitt!”
“I would hardly suspect my own mother of—” She stopped.
“Killing Mina?” he finished for her. “Perhaps not—but would the police be so well-disposed?”
“Where did Ottilie die? It was not at your country house, as you said.”
“Oh.” For several minutes he remained silent, standing with one foot on the hearth, and she waited. “Tell you what,” he said at last. “Come with me and I’ll show you!”
She exploded in frustration. “Don’t be ridiculous! If it is something so secret—”
“Bring your own carriage,” he interrupted. “And your own footman if you like.”
“Policemen do not have carriages!” she snapped. “Or footmen!”
“No, I suppose they don’t. Sorry. Bring your mother’s. I’ll prove to you we didn’t murder Ottilie.”
Her mind raced to find a way of accepting that was not wildly foolish. If he or his family had killed Ottilie, and then Mina, they would not balk at killing her just as easily. Yet perhaps she was being offered the solution. And if the stolen articles had really been returned, how did Inigo Charrington know it? Why had Caroline not told her? Anyway, why would a thief take them and then return them? It made no sense—unless it was involved with the murder. Had Mina been the thief, and had the murderer retrieved all the stolen things to mask the recovery of the one thing that would have damned him?
Suddenly the solution came to her. Emily would never permit such an opportunity to escape, and she could provide the means for Charlotte to accept.
“I shall take my sister’s carriage,” she replied with an assurance she hoped she could justify. “And naturally I shall tell her for what purpose, and who is to accompany me.”
“Excellent! Have you considered joining the police force yourself?”
“Don’t be impertinent!” she said acidly, but inside excitement was boiling up.
He smiled. “I think you would enjoy it enormously. Actually, I think I might myself. I shall collect you at six o’clock. What you are wearing will be adequate, if you take off that thing from the neck.”
“At six o’clock?” She was startled. “Why not now?”
“Because it is barely half past three, and far too early.”
She did not understand, but at least by six o’clock she would have had opportunity to make some arrangement with Emily, both to borrow the carriage and to be perfectly sure that Inigo Charrington did not imagine he could harm her in any way and remain at liberty himself.
When she arrived at her mother’s house and explained the matter to her sister—out of Caroline’s hearing, of course—Emily was aghast. Her immediate reaction was that Inigo had undoubtedly murdered his sister and now intended to do away with Charlotte as well.
“He would hardly be so foolish,” Charlotte replied, trying to weight her voice with conviction. “After all, if anything were to happen to me when you all know I am in his company, then he would damn himself completely. I believe he really is going to tell me how Ottilie died and show me some proof of it. I certainly will not believe it without proof!”
“Then I shall come with you,” Emily said instantly.
It was only with difficulty that Charlotte succeeded in persuading her that her presence might risk the whole venture. If the nature of Ottilie’s death had been such that the family was prepared to have it known, then Pitt would have discovered it in his own attempts. She could think of no satisfactory reason why Inigo was now willing to tell her, except that perhaps fear of the still greater danger of being suspected of murder hung over them. But if it were a matter of desperate embarrassment, even of humiliation, then the fewer people who were aware of it the easier for the family. And also since Charlotte was not of their own social circle, perhaps they would not suffer so acutely for her knowing the truth.
Emily accepted the argument with reluctance, but she was obliged to concede its validity. At least she made no protest about lending both her carriage and her footman. She would take the use of her mother’s to return to her home.
Inigo called at six o’clock precisely, dressed in an elegant coat of darkest green with a fine top hat.
It was on the tip of Charlotte’s tongue to ask him where on earth they might be going, but she bit back the words, remembering the need for discretion. Caroline had already delivered herself of her opinion of Charlotte’s behavior, and she forbore expressing it again in front of Inigo.
Inside the carriage he made sure that she was comfortable, then offered no further remark, but sat silent, a smile curving his mouth, while they drove through gaslit streets Charlotte had not seen before, seemingly toward the heart of the city.
She lost track of time. They turned endless corners till her sense of direction, which had never been good, vanished, and when at last they pulled up she could not have made even a guess where they were.
Inigo climbed out and handed her down. The lamps were brilliant in the street, and some on the front of a large building were of different colors.
“Electric,” he said cheerfully. “There are quite a few of them now.”
She stared around her. There was music coming from somewhere, and a dozen or more people on the pavement, mostly men, some of whom were in evening dress.
“Where are we?” she asked in bewilderment. “Where is this?”
“It is a music hall, my dear,” he said with a sudden, flashing smile. “One of the best. Ada Church is singing here tonight, and she’ll pack ’em in.”
“A music hall!” Charlotte was stunned. She had been expecting a cemetery, a clinic, or even a madhouse—but a music hall! It was preposterous—like a black farce.
“Come on.” He took her arm and pushed her toward the doorway. She thought of resisting; she was both frightened and intensely curious. She had heard of Ada Church—she was said to be very handsome, and had one of the best music hall acts. Even Pitt had once commented that she had beautiful legs—of all things! He had smiled as he said it, and she had recognized that he was teasing, so she had refrained from asking him how he knew!
“Good evening, Mr. Charrington, sir.” The doorman raised his hand in a little salute, although his eyes registered surprise at Charlotte. “Good to see you again, sir.”
“You’ve been here before!” Charlotte accused him. “And often!”
“Oh yes.”
She stopped, pulling against his arm. “And you have the impertinence to bring me with you! I know I am a policeman’s wife, but I do not frequent places like this! I’ll have you remember that there are a great many things men may do and women may not! Now you have had your rather cheap joke. I accept that it was tasteless and cruel of me to ask what happened to your sister. You have your revenge, and my apologies. Now please take me home!”
He held on to her arm tightly, too tightly for her to break away.
“Don’t be so pompous,” he said quietly. “You aren’t any good at it. You wanted to know what happened to Ottilie. I’m going to tell you, and prove it. Now stop making a scene and come in. You’ll probably even enjoy it, if you let yourself. And if you don’t want to be seen here, then don’t stand in the entranceway where everybody can look at you making a spectacle of yourself!”
His logic was irrefutable. She jerked her head in the air and sailed in on his arm, looking neither right nor left, and permitted him to seat her at one of the numerous tables in the center of the floor. She was dimly aware of tiers of boxes and balconies, like a theater, of a brilliantly lit stage, of gaudy colors, flounced dresses low off the shoulders, and the black and white of rich men’s clothes mixed with the duller browns of those less comfortable, and even the checks of men come from the local streets. Waiters wove their way through the throng, glasses sparkled as they were raised and lowered, and all the time there was the murmur of voices and the lilt of music.
Inigo said nothing, but she was conscious of his bright face watching her, curiosity and laughter so close to the surface she could feel it as if he touched her.
A waiter came over and he ordered champagne, which in itself seemed to amuse him. When it came, he poured, lifted his glass, and toasted her.
“To detectives,” he said, his eyes silver in the light. “Would to God all mysteries were so simple.”
“I’m beginning to think it is the detectives who are simple!” she replied acidly, but she accepted the champagne and drank it. It was pleasantly sharp, neither sour nor sweet, and she felt less angry after it. When he poured more, she accepted that too.
Presently a juggler came onto the stage, and she watched him without particular interest. She granted that what he was doing was extremely difficult, but it seemed hardly worth the effort. He was followed by a comic who told some very odd jokes, but the audience seemed to find them hilarious. She had a suspicion she had failed to understand the point.
The waiter brought more champagne, and she became aware that she was beginning to find the colors and the music rather pleasing.
A chorus of girls appeared and performed a song she was sure she had heard before, and then a man popped up and twisted himself into the oddest contortions.
At last there was silence and then a roll of drums. The announcer held up his hands.
“Ladies and gentlemen, for your exclusive entertainment and enchantment, the culmination of your entire evening, the quintessence of beauty, of daring, of sheer dazzling delight—Miss Ada Church!”
There was a thunder of applause, even whistles and shouts, and the curtain went up. There was only one woman on the stage, slender with a tiny waist and long, long legs encased in black trousers. A tailcoat and white shirt hid nothing of her figure, and a top hat was perched at a rakish angle on a pile of flaming red hair. She was smiling, and the joy seemed to radiate out of her to fill the whole hall.
“Bravo, Ada!” someone shouted, and there was more clapping. As the orchestra started to play, her rich, throaty voice rang out in a gay, surging, bawdy song. It was less than vulgar, but there was an intimacy to it, full of suggested secrets.
The audience roared its approval and sang the chorus along with her. By the third song, Charlotte found to her horror that she was joining in as well, music swelling up inside her with a pleasant, tingling happiness. Rutland Place seemed a thousand miles away, and she wanted to forget its darkness and its miseries. All that was good was here in the lights and the warmth, singing along with Ada Church, and the vitality that conquered everything.
It would have shocked Caroline rigid, but now Charlotte was singing as loudly as the rest in the rollicking chorus: “Champagne Charlie is my name!”
When at last the curtain came down for the final time, she stopped clapping and turned to find Inigo staring at her. She ought to have felt embarrassed, but somehow she was so exhilarated it did not seem to matter.
He held up the last bottle of champagne, but it was empty. He signaled for the waiter to bring another. Inigo had barely opened it when Charlotte saw Ada Church herself walking toward them, giving a little wave of her arm, but gracefully avoiding the hands stretched out at her. She stopped at their table, and Inigo stood up immediately and offered her his chair.
She kissed him on the cheek, and he slipped an arm around her.
“Hello, darling,” she said casually, then turned a dazzling smile on Charlotte.
Inigo bowed very slightly. “Mrs. Pitt, may I present my sister Ottilie? Tillie, this is Charlotte Pitt, the daughter of one of my neighbors, who has rather let her family down by marrying into the police! She fancied we had done away with you, so I brought her here to see that you are in excellent health.”
For once, Charlotte was staggered beyond words.
“Done away with me?” Ottilie said incredulously. “How absolutely marvelous! You know, I do believe the thought occurred to Papa, only he didn’t have the nerve!” She began to laugh; it rose bubbling in her throat and rang out in rich delight. “How superb!” She clung onto Inigo’s arm. “Do you mean the police are actually questioning Papa as to what he did with me, because they suspect him of murder? I do wish I could see his face as he tries to explain himself out of that! He’d almost rather die than tell anyone what I really am!”
Inigo kept his arm around her, but suddenly his humor vanished.
“It’s a good deal more than that, Tillie. There has been a murder, a real one. Mina Spencer-Brown was poisoned. She was a Peeping Tom, and it rather looks as if she saw something worth killing to keep secret. Not unnaturally, it occurred to the police that your disappearance might be that something.”
Ottilie’s laughter vanished instantly, and her hands tightened over his arm, long, slender hands with knuckles white where they gripped the stuff of his sleeve.
“Oh God! You don’t think—”
“No,” he said quickly, “it’s not that. Papa has no idea—and I really don’t think Mama cares. In fact, it has occurred to me, looking at her face across the table, that half of her rather wants everyone to know, especially him.”
“But you put them back?” she said urgently. “You promised—”
“Of course I did, once I knew where they belonged. No one else knows.” He turned to Charlotte. “I’m afraid my mother has a regrettable habit of picking up small things that do not belong to her. I do my best to replace them as soon as possible. I’m also afraid I took rather longer than usual with your mother’s locket, because she said nothing about losing it so I didn’t know to whom it belonged. I doubt I need to explain all the reasons for that?”
“No,” Charlotte said quietly. “No, better not.” She was puzzled. She liked Ambrosine Charrington. “Why on earth should she resort to petty stealing?”
Inigo pulled over another chair, and he and Ottilie sat down. Seeing them so close together, Charlotte realized the resemblance was quite marked. There could be no doubt who “Ada Church” was.
“Escape,” Ottilie said simply, looking at Charlotte. “Perhaps you can’t understand that? But if you had lived with Papa for thirty years, you might. Sometimes you get to feel so imprisoned by other people’s ideas and habits and expectations that part of you grows to hate them, and you want to break their ideals, smash them, shock those people into really looking at you for once, reaching through the glass to touch the real flesh beyond.”
“It’s all right.” Charlotte shook her head. “You don’t need to explain. I’ve wanted to stand on the table and scream myself, once or twice, tell everybody what I really thought. Perhaps after thirty years I would have. Do you like it here?” She looked around at the tables, the sea of bodies and faces.
Ottilie smiled, without pretense. “Yes. I love it. I’ve cried myself to sleep a few times, and I’ve had long, lonely days—and nights. And a good few times I’ve thought I was a fool, or worse. But when I hear the music, the people singing with me, and the applause—yes, I love it. I daresay in ten years or fifteen I shall have nothing but vanity and memories, and wish I’d stayed at home and married suitably—but I don’t think so.”
Charlotte found herself smiling as well; the champagne still glowed inside her.
“You might marry well anyway,” she said, and then suddenly her tongue felt awkward, and the next sentence did not sound quite as she had intended it should. “People from music halls sometimes do, so someone said—didn’t they?”
Ottilie looked at her brother. “You’ve been filling her with champagne,” she accused.
“Of course. That way she’ll have an excuse in the morning. And I daresay not recall quite how much she enjoyed slumming!” He stood up. “Have some yourself, Tillie. I must take Charlotte home before her husband sends half the metropolitan police out for her!”
Charlotte did not hear what he said. The music had started in her head again, and she was happy for him to lead her to the door, collect her cloak, and send for the carriage. The air outside was sharp; its coldness made her feel a little dizzy.
He handed her up and closed the door, and the horses clopped gently through silent streets.
Charlotte began to sing to herself and was still going through the chorus for the seventh time when Inigo helped her down outside her own front door.
“Champagne Charlie is my name!” she sang cheerfully and rather loudly. “Champagne drinking is my game! There is nothing like the fizz, fizz, fizz. I’ll drink every drop there is, is, is! I’m the darling”—she hesitated, then remembered—“of the barmaids! And Champagne Charlie is my name!”
The door swung open, and she looked up to see Pitt staring at her, his face white and furious, the gas lamp in the hallway behind him making a halo around his head.
“She’s perfectly safe,” Inigo said soberly. “I took her to meet my sister—after whom I believe you have been inquiring?”
“I—” Charlotte hiccupped and slid neatly to the floor.
“Sorry,” Inigo said with a slight smile. “Good night!”
Charlotte was not even aware of Pitt bending down to pick her up and heave her inside with a comment that would have blistered her ears had she heard it.