eyes where the skin looked bruised and papery. Charlotte did not need to be told her sister was restless and sleeping too little. Boredom is not by any means the worst of afflictions, but it carries its own kind of debilitation. Christmas would be all too brief, and what would Emily do after that?
“Have a cup of tea,” Charlotte offered, turning to the big kitchen range without waiting for an answer. “Have you ever been to Hanover Close?”
Emily took off her coat and sat at the kitchen table, resting her elbows on its scrubbed wood. Her dress beneath the coat was equally elegant, although there were places where she did not fill it out as she used to.
“No, but I know where it is. Why?” The answering inquiry was merely polite.
Charlotte plunged in at the deepest point. “There has been a murder there.”
“In Hanover Close?” This time she had Emily’s full attention. “Good heavens. That’s terribly exclusive. The best possible taste-and money. Who is dead?”
“Robert York. He used to work at the Foreign Office- until he died, I mean.”
“How was he killed? I didn’t read of it.” Normally a lady of Emily’s position would not have read a newspaper at all, apart from perhaps the society pages and the Court Circular. But unlike their papa, George had been very lenient where such things were concerned-as long as she did not offend people by discussing them. And, of course, since his death she did as she pleased.
Charlotte poured the water from the kettle into the teapot, then placed it on the table with a cream jug and two of her best cups. “It happened three years ago,” she said as carelessly as she could. “Thomas has just been asked to reopen the case, because the widow is to marry again, to someone else in the Foreign Office.”
Emily perked up. “Is she betrothed yet? I haven’t seen news of that either, and I always read the society pages. That is about the only way I get to hear anything. No one tells me anything anymore; it’s as if the whole subject of relationships between men and women were something I should not be reminded of.” Unconsciously her fist clenched.
Charlotte noticed it. “That is the point!” she said quickly. “Thomas has been asked to investigate, to see if she is a suitable person to marry someone as important as Mr. Danver will become, when he is promoted.”
“Might she not be?” Emily asked. “Please do pour the tea, I’m as dry as the Sahara, and it’s had plenty of time to brew. Has she a reputation? I wish I could hear more. I’m so cut off it’s as if I were a leper! Half the people I used to know are embarrassed to see me, and the other half spend their time sitting around solemnly and talking in whispers, as if I were dying myself.” She sniffed fiercely, searching in her reticule for a handkerchief. It was not self-pity so much as the sudden warmth of the kitchen after the cold air in the carriage which provoked the necessity.
Charlotte shook her head. “No, that’s as much as I have learned, but the crime itself is very unexplained.” She poured the tea and pushed Emily’s cup across towards her, along with a piece of fresh ginger cake, which was taken readily. “It is rather odd.” And she told Emily all that Pitt had told her.
“Very odd,” Emily agreed at last. “I wonder if she had a lover, and there was a quarrel. I suppose that is really what the Foreign Office wants Thomas to discover, but they are afraid to say so, in case it should get back to Mr. Danver, who would be furious. And of course, it would prejudice him terribly; he would never have any peace of mind at such a slur.”
“Neither would she!” Charlotte said hotly. “If it is untrue, it could be the most appalling injustice. But I don’t know how Thomas will be able to make any inquiries. It is hardly the thing a policeman can ask of her social acquaintances.”
Emily smiled. “My dear Charlotte, you don’t need to labor the point so hard. You are being singularly unsubtle, even for you! Of course we will find out. We have done nothing but bake cakes and stitch seams for six months, and I am ready to scream with it. We shall prove Veronica York’s impeccable reputation, or ruin it entirely. Where shall we begin?”
Charlotte had already anticipated the difficulties. Emily could no longer move in Society as she had when George was alive; and Charlotte, as the wife of a policeman, had not the money to dress appropriately, nor the friends upon whom to call. There was only George’s great-aunt Vespasia, who would understand and assist, but she was over eighty, and since George’s death had taken a less active part in affairs than before. She was devoted to a number of causes, and believed that the battle against poverty and injustice could be tackled through reform of the law. She was currently engaged in a struggle to improve the working conditions in factories which employed children, especially those under the age of ten.
Charlotte poured more tea into her cup and sipped it. “Are you still in acquaintance with Jack Radley?” She asked, trying to sound casual, as if the question were entirely to do with the problem of Veronica York.
Emily reached for the ginger cake again. “He calls upon me from time to time. Do you think he might involve himself?” She cut a large slice of the cake and bit into it hungrily.
“Perhaps he might help us to-to arrange a meeting,” Charlotte suggested.
“Not us.” Emily made a face. “You.” She poured herself more tea, spilling it. At this she swore, using a word she had heard George use in the stables. Charlotte knew her reaction had nothing to do with the mess in the saucer; she was frustrated by the imprisonment of mourning, and above all the loneliness.
“I know I shall have to do it this time,” Charlotte agreed. “And you will have to instruct me. I shall gather what information I can, and together we will unravel what it means.”
It was not like being there herself, catching the nuances of tone, the expression fleeting across the face, the glance from one to another, but Emily knew that Charlotte’s idea was the best she could hope for, and she was grateful for it. It would have been ladylike to wait until Jack Radley called upon her. She did not imagine it would be long before he did; he had made his admiration plain enough six months ago and in the intervening time had visited her on many occasions. It was not the depth of his regard she doubted, but the quality. Did he court her for herself, or because she was George’s widow, with George’s position and George’s money? She enjoyed his company as much as she had ever enjoyed anyone’s-and that was a rather startling admission, considering her suspicions. Put how close is liking to loving?
When she had married George, he had been the catch of the season. Emily had been perfectly aware of his faults; she had considered them part of the bargain and accepted them graciously. He in turn had proved to be all that she had hoped, and had never criticized any of her imperfections. What had begun as a perfect understanding had grown into something much warmer. Her first perception of him had been as the handsome, reckless Lord George Ashworth, the ideal husband. Her feelings for George had matured into a gentle and loyal love, as she had begun to see the reality of a man who was worldly in sport and finance, charming in society, without the least duplicity in his nature, nor the least subtlety. She had always had enough wisdom to hide the fact that she was probably both more intelligent than he and more courageous. She had also been less tolerant and less generous in her judgments. He had had a quick temper, but it passed like a squall; he had overlooked the foibles of his own class and ignored the weaknesses of others. She did neither. Injustice infuriated her, more now than when she was younger. As time passed she was becoming more like Charlotte, who had always been opinionated, quick to anger, and a fighter against all she perceived to be wrong, even though that perception was sometimes hasty, and far too outspoken. Emily had been more sensible-at least until now.
Today she sat down and wrote a letter to Jack Radley, inviting him to call upon her at his earliest convenience, and dispatched the footman with it as soon as it was sealed.
His reply was satisfactorily rapid. He arrived in the early evening, the hour when in happier times she would have been dressing for an evening at dinner, or perhaps a ball or the theater. Now she sat by the fire reading Robert Louis Stevenson’s
Jack Radley entered the moment after the parlormaid announced him. He was casually dressed, but his tailor was clearly his chief creditor. The cut of his trousers was immaculate, the jacket fit perfectly. It was his smile she looked to, however, and those remarkable eyes, which were full of concern.
“Emily, are you all right?” he asked, searching her face. “Your message sounded urgent. Has something happened?”
She felt a trifle foolish. “I’m sorry. It is not an emergency, and I am perfectly well, thank you. But I am bored to distraction, and Charlotte has discovered a mystery.” There was no point in lying to him; he was too like her to be deceived.
