“Mr. Julian Danver, and ’is father Mr. Garrard, and Miss ’arriet,” she replied quickly. “And Mr. and Mrs. Asherson.” She mentioned half a dozen more names which Pitt wrote down under the disapproving eye of the butler.
“Now see if you can recall a particular day,” he went on, “and go through your duties one by one.”
“Yes, sir.” She looked at her folded hands and recited slowly, “I got up at ’alf past five and came downstairs to clean out all the grates, taking out the cinders to the back. Mary’d give me a cup o’ tea, then I’d make sure all the ’arths was clean and things blacked as should be, and the brasses, firedogs, and the like polished, and I’d lay the fires and light them so when the family came down in the rooms’d be warm. I’d make sure the footman brought in the coals and the scuttles was full-sometimes you ’ave to be be’ind them all the time. Then after breakfast I’d start dusting and cleaning-”
“Did you clean the library?” He had to press for an identification to justify his position.
“Yes sir-sir! I remember now: that’s very like the vase we ’ad, but it in’t it!”
“You’re sure?” the butler put in sharply.
“Yes, Mr. Redditch. That in’t our vase; I’d swear to it.”
“Thank you.” Pitt could think of nothing else to ask. At least he had some names and could begin looking for a possible amateur thief. He stood up and thanked them.
Redditch relented.
“Would you like a cup of tea in the kitchen, Mr. Pitt?”
Pitt accepted immediately. He was thirsty, and he would very much like a hot cup of tea. He would also like an opportunity to observe as many of the servants as he could.
Half an hour later, after three cups of tea and two slices of Madeira cake, he went back to the main hallway and opened the library door. It was a gracious room, lined with bookshelves on two sides, the third taken up with windows from floor to ceiling curtained in rust red velvet. On the fourth side was a huge marble fireplace flanked by semicircular tables inlaid with exotic wood. There was a massive desk in oak and green leather, its back to the windows, and three large leather-covered armchairs.
Pitt stood in the middle of the floor, imagining the scene on the night Robert York was killed. He heard a slight sound behind him and turned to find the maid, Dulcie, in the doorway. As soon as he saw her she came in. Her brow was puckered and her eyes bright.
“There was something else?” he asked quickly, sure he was right.
“Yes sir. You asked about guests, people callin’ ’ere …”
“Yes?”
“Well, that week was the last time I saw ’er, or anything belonging to ’er.” She stopped, biting her lip, suddenly uncertain whether she should be so indiscreet.
“Saw who, Dulcie?” He must be gentle, not attach too much importance to it and frighten her. “Saw who?”
“I don’t know ’er name. The woman what wore the cerise-colored gowns, always something o’ that shade. She weren’t a guest-at least, she never came in the front door with other people, and I never saw ’er face except that one time in the light from the gas lamp on the landing; there she was one moment, and gone a second later. But she wore cerise always, either a gown or gloves or a flower or something. I know Miss Veronica’s things, and she ’adn’t nothing that color. But I found a glove one day in the library, ’alf under one of them cushions.” She pointed to the furthest chair. “And once there was a piece o’ ribbon.”
“Are you sure they weren’t the elder Mrs. York’s?”
“Oh yes, sir. I knew the lady’s maids then, and we talked about the mistresses’ clothes. It’s a hard color, that; I know as neither of them wore it. It was the woman in cerise, sir, but ’oo she was I swear I don’t know. ’Cept she came and went like a shadow, like no one should see ’er, and I ’aven’t seen ’er since that week, sir. I’m sorry as it weren’t the right vase, sir. I wish as you could catch ’ooever done it. It in’t the silver: Mr. Piers says as you can always get money from the insurance, like ’e did when Mrs. Loretta lost ’er pearls with the sapphire clip.” She bit her lip and suddenly stopped.
“Thank you, Dulcie.” Pitt looked at her worried face. “You did the right thing to tell me. I shan’t repeat it to Mr. Redditch unless I have to. Now show me to the door, and no one will notice your being here.”
“Yes sir. Thank you sir. I. .” She hesitated a moment, as if she would say more, then changed her mind and bobbed a brief curtsy before leading him out across the large hall and opening the front door.
A moment later he was outside in the silent close, ice crackling under his boots. Who was this woman in cerise, who apparently had never called again after Robert York’s murder, and why had no one else spoken of her?
Perhaps she did not matter; she might be a friend of Veronica’s, a relative with eccentric or unacceptable behavior. Or she might be just what the Foreign Office was concealing and hoping he could not trace-a spy. He would have to speak to Dulcie again, when he knew a little more.
4
Emily returned home the day after Boxing Day. The Ashworth town house was large and extremely gracious. George had had much of it redecorated to please Emily’s taste the first year after they were married, and he had been characteristically generous. Nothing that added charm or personality had been denied, and yet the overall effect was not ostentatious in the least. There were no ornate French pieces, no gilt or curlicues; the furniture was Regency and Georgian, in keeping with the architecture of the house itself. Emily had argued with George at the time about his parents’ love of tassels and fringes and had banished most of the indifferent family portraits to unused guest rooms. The result had both surprised and pleased George, who had compared it with satisfaction to the crowded houses of their friends.
Now, as Emily stood in the hallway while the servants obeyed her instructions, carrying in cases, preparing luncheon for Edward and herself, she felt a void of loneliness close round her as if the house were alien. She drew in her breath, wanting to tell them to stop, that she would be returning to Charlotte’s much smaller house. It was positively cramped by comparison, with secondhand furnishings, and located in a narrow, unfashionable street. But Emily had been happy there; for a few days she had entirely forgotten about her new state of widowhood. Physical differences had been irrelevant, they had all been together, and if she woke once or twice in the night in her bed alone and thought of Charlotte lying in a warm bed with Thomas just beyond the wall, those were short moments, quickly banished by returning sleep.
Now the contrast was like a newly whetted blade, making the spacious air of this house, of which she was sole mistress, feel chilly, as if cold water were touching her skin.
It was ridiculous! The servants had fires burning in every grate, and there were the sounds of quick, busy feet in the passage, the clink of silver in the dining room and the chatter of maids on the landing, and the green baize door swung with a faint bump as a footman came through.
She walked quickly up the stairs, undoing her coat as she went. Her lady’s maid appeared and took it from her, along with her hat; she would unpack the cases, sort out what needed laundering, and hang up the gowns. The nurserymaid would do the same for Edward.
Downstairs again, the cook knocked on the boudoir door and inquired for instructions about dinner, and whatever Emily might care for on the menu over the next few days. There was nothing Emily had to do herself but make decisions about things that hardly mattered. That was the trouble. Day after day stretched before her, empty of any necessary or interesting occupation: all the bleak January days she might fill with needlework, writing letters, playing the piano to an empty room, or messing around with brushes and paints and failing to create what she envisioned.
Whatever she did, she did not want to do it alone.
But most of the people she knew were merely acquaintances; to consider them friends would be to devalue the word. Their company would disturb the silence without giving her a sense of companionship, and she was not yet so desperate that she craved any presence at all, regardless of its quality.
In the sensible part of her mind was the realization that company of any value meant relationships, and Emily was not sure what relationship she was prepared for, outside of her family. Although her mother was also fairly
