“Oh, Miss Charlotte!”
“What’s the matter, Dora? You look terrible. Are you ill?”
“Not properly speaking, I’m not. But isn’t it terrible, Miss?”
Charlotte’s heart sank. Surely Papa had not turned Lily out into the street in the middle of the night?
“Oh, Miss Charlotte,” Dora swallowed, her eyes round. “She never did come back. She must be lying murdered in the street somewhere, and we all in our beds like we didn’t care!”
“She doesn’t have to be anything of the sort!” Charlotte snapped, trying to convince herself. “She’s probably lying in bed, too, in some miserable room with Jack what’s-his-name.”
“Oh no, Miss, it’s wicked of you to say-” She blushed violently. “I’m sorry, Miss Charlotte, but you didn’t ought to say that. Lily was a good girl. She’d have never done that, and without giving notice even!”
Charlotte changed the subject.
“Did the police come, do you know? I mean, Maddock went for them.”
“Yes, Miss, a constable came, but he seemed to be of a mind that Lily was no better than she should be, and had simply run off. But then I always reckon police is no better than they should be either. All the low sorts of people they mix with, I dare say. Stands to reason, don’t it?”
“I don’t know, Dora. I’ve never known any police.”
Breakfast was a formal and very grim affair. Even Dominic looked unusually glum. He and Papa departed for the day, and Emily and Mama went to the dressmaker’s for fittings. Sarah was in her room writing letters. Funny what an enormous correspondence she had. Charlotte could never find above two or three people to write to in a month.
It was half past eleven and Charlotte was painting surprisingly successfully, for the gray mood she was in, when Maddock knocked and opened the door.
“What is it, Maddock?” Charlotte did not look up from her palette. She was mixing a muted sepia for leaves in the distance, and wished to get it exactly right. She enjoyed painting, and this morning it was particularly soothing.
“A person, Miss Charlotte, to see Mrs. Ellison, but since she is not in, he insisted on seeing someone.”
She abandoned the sepia.
“What do you mean, ‘a person,’ Maddock? What kind of a person?”
“A person from the police, Miss Charlotte.”
Fear rippled through Charlotte. It was real at last! Or were they come to complain about having been bothered over a domestic matter?
“Then you’d better show him in.”
“Do you wish me to remain, Miss, in case he becomes a nuisance? You can never tell with police persons. They are used to a different class of neighbourhood altogether.”
Charlotte would very much have liked his moral support.
“No, thank you, Maddock. But stay in the hall so I can call for you, please.”
“Yes, Miss.”
A moment later the door opened again.
“Inspector Pitt, ma’am.”
The man who came in was tall and looked large because he was untidy; his hair was unruly, and his jacket napped. His face was plain, a little Semitic, although his eyes were light and his hair no darker than brown. He appeared intelligent. His voice when he spoke was unusually beautiful, quite incongruous against his somewhat scruffy appearance. He looked Charlotte up and down keenly, irritating her already.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you when you are alone, Miss Ellison, but we cannot afford to waste time. Perhaps you would like to sit down?”
Instinctively she refused.
“No, thank you,” she said stiffly. “What is it you want?”
“I’m sorry, I have bad news. We have found your maid, Lily Mitchell.”
Charlotte tried to stand quite still, upright, although her knees were weak. She could feel the blood drain from her face.
“Where?” her voice was a squeak. This wretched man was staring at her. She did not normally dislike people on sight-no, perhaps that was not quite true-but this man certainly inspired it. “Well?” she said, keeping her voice level.
“In Cater Street. Perhaps you had better sit down?”
“I’m perfectly all right, thank you.” She tried to freeze him with a glance, but he seemed oblivious to it. Quite firmly he took her arm and guided her backwards into one of the hardbacked chairs.
“Would you like me to call one of your maids?” he offered.
That incensed her. She was not so feeble she could not conduct herself decently, even in the face of shocking news.
“What is it you wish to do that cannot wait?” she said with great control.
He wandered slowly round the room. Really, the man had no manners at all. Still, what could you expect of the police? He probably could not help it.
“Your butler reported last night that she had gone out walking with a man called Jack Brody, a clerk of some sort. What time did you require her to come home?”
“Half past ten, I think. I’m not sure. No, maybe ten o’clock. Maddock could tell you.”
“With your permission, I shall ask him.” It sounded more like a statement than a request. “How long was she in your employ?”
It all sounded so final, so much in the past.
“Four years, about. She was only nineteen.” She heard her voice drop suddenly, and a sharp memory of Emily came back to her, Emily as a baby, Emily learning to walk. It was ridiculous. Emily had nothing in common with Lily, except that they were both nineteen.
The wretched policeman was staring at her.
“You must have known her fairly well?”
“I suppose so.” She realized just how little she did know. Lily was a face around the house, something she was used to. She did not know anything about the girl behind the face at all, what she cared about, or was afraid of.
“Had she ever stayed out before?”
“What?” She had temporarily forgotten him.
He repeated the question.
“No. Never. Mister-?” She had forgotten his name, too.
“Pitt, Inspector Pitt,” he filled in for her.
“Inspector Pitt, was she-was she strangled, like the others?”
“Garroted, Miss Ellison, with a strong wire. Yes, exactly like the others.”
“And-and was she also-mutilated?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“Oh.” She felt weakness overwhelm her, and horror, and pity.
He was watching her. Apparently he saw nothing but her silence.
“With your permission, I’ll go and speak to the other servants. They probably knew her better than you did.” There was something in his tone of voice that implied she did not care. It made her angry-and guilty.
“We don’t pry into our servants’ lives, Mr. Pitt! But in case you think we are not concerned, it was I who sent Maddock for the police last night.” She coloured with anger as soon as she had said it. Why on earth was she trying to justify herself to this man? “Unfortunately you were not able to find her then!” she added sharply.
He accepted the rebuke silently, and a moment later he was gone.
Charlotte stood staring at the easel. The painting which had seemed delicate and evocative a quarter of an hour ago was now only so many gray-brown smudges on paper. Her mind was full of blurred images, dark streets, footsteps, fighting for breath, and above all fear, and the dreadful, intimate attack.
She was still staring at the easel when her mother came in. Emily’s voice floated from the hall.
“I’m sure it will look perfectly dreadful if she leaves it as loose as that. I shall appear to be quite fat! It’s so
