whenever she wanted, power to destroy whomever she chose. Wasn’t that it, Mrs. York? He loved Cerise, not you. He didn’t love you, didn’t want you. You revolted him-and you never forgave him for that.” She met Loretta’s eyes and saw that she had drawn the ultimate pain, and a hate so terrible that Loretta would have murdered Charlotte if she could. In an instant, as their glances locked, they both knew it.
“Did you think that wretched woman in Seven Dials was Cerise?” Charlotte continued pitilessly. “Is that why you broke her neck? You wasted your effort. She wasn’t Cerise, she was just some poor maid who’d lost her character and fallen on hard times!”
“You murdered her!” Garrard accused Loretta, his voice high and harsh. “You thought it was Cerise so you broke her neck!”
“Be quiet!” Loretta was cornered, trapped, and she knew it. Her soul had been stripped naked in front of all the people round the table; her rejection had been exposed for them all to see and taste. And Garrard was lost forever, even the power to hurt him was gone. She did not know how to fight anymore.
Garrard had burned under her threat all these years, dreading the meetings with her, always afraid one day she would betray his weakness, ruin his reputation and strip him of his position, his career. Now it was gone anyway, and he took his revenge.
“You murdered her,” he repeated steadily. “You dressed that poor damn woman in that dress so you could blame that wretched policeman! How did you find the woman? Who was she? Some maid you’d dismissed, and still knew where to find?”
Loretta stared at him dumbly. It was the truth and it was painted on her face too clearly to be worth denying.
“And Dulcie?” he went on. “You pushed her out of the window. Why? What did she know-or see?”
“Don’t you know?” She started to laugh hysterically. “Oh dear, Garrard-don’t you know?” Tears streamed down her face, her voice getting wilder and higher every moment.
Jack stood up and moved towards her. “Asherson!” he said sharply.
In a daze Felix rose and came to help. Between them they half lifted her from her chair and took her from the room.
Vespasia stood also, stiffly, her face pale. “I am going to telephone the police. Superintendent Ballarat, I believe it is. And the home secretary.” She looked round the table at them. “I apologize for such an-an unfortunate dinner party, but you see, Thomas Pitt is a friend of mine. I cannot sit by and see him hanged for a murder he did not commit. Please excuse me.” Head high, back like a ramrod, she swept out of the room to exert all her influence, to call on old friendships and have Pitt released, now, tonight.
In the silence behind her no one moved.
But it was not over. There was still Cerise, the real Cerise. And who had murdered Robert York, and why? Had that also been Loretta? Charlotte believed not.
On shaking legs she rose too. “Ladies, I think we should retire. I cannot imagine anyone feels like eating anymore. I certainly don’t.”
Obediently they pushed back their chairs and straggled through to the withdrawing room. Adeline and Harriet went together, leaning a little on each other, as though physical proximity could give them strength. Sonia Asherson hugged her hurt to herself, tight-lipped.
Lastly Charlotte followed at Veronica’s elbow. In the hallway she drew her aside into the library. Veronica looked round, startled, as though the book-lined shelves unnerved her.
Charlotte stood against the door, blocking it.
“There’s still Cerise,” she said quietly. “The real Cerise. The woman Garrard loved. That’s you, isn’t it!”
“Me?” Veronica’s eyes widened. “Me! Oh God! How wrong you are! But why? Why do you care? Why have you done all this? Who are you?”
“Charlotte Pitt.”
“Charlotte-Pitt? You mean-you mean that policeman is your-”
“My husband. And I’m not going to let him hang for murdering that woman.”
“He won’t,” Veronica said harshly. “Loretta did it. We all heard her say so. You don’t have to worry.”
“It isn’t finished.” Charlotte turned the key in the lock. “There’s still the real Cerise, and whoever murdered your husband. I don’t think that was Loretta. I think it was you- and Loretta knew it. She protected you because of her own blackmailing of Garrard, even though you killed her son. That’s why you hated each other, and yet neither of you could afford to betray the other!”
“How-I …” Veronica shook her head slowly, incredulous.
“There’s no purpose in denying it.” Charlotte could not afford pity now. This was Cerise; she might not be a spy after all, but she was a ruthless, passionate woman, and a murderess. “Was it to marry Julian? Did you get tired of Robert and murder him, so you could marry Julian?”
“No!” Veronica was so ashen Charlotte was half afraid she was going to faint. And yet she was Cerise-Cerise with the flair, the panache, the courage.
“I’m sorry, but I cannot believe you.”
“I am not Cerise!” Veronica put her hands over her face and turned away, crumpling in a heap onto the sofa. “Oh God! I suppose I’d better tell you the truth. It isn’t what you think at all!”
Charlotte sat carefully on the edge of a chair, waiting.
“I loved Robert. You’ll never believe how much, not now. But when we were married, I thought I had everything a woman could want. He was-he was so handsome, so charming and sensitive. He seemed to understand me. He was a companion, more than any other man I’d ever known. I–I loved him so much.” She closed her eyes, but the tears seeped through, and she gulped.
In spite of herself Charlotte was filled with pity. She knew what it was to love so much your whole world was filled with it. She, too, had suffered loneliness.
“Go on,” she said softly. “What about Cerise?”
Veronica made an intense effort, her body shaking, her voice husky as if the words cut her.
“Robert grew-cool towards me. I-” She swallowed and her voice sank to a whisper. “He became-uninterested in the-the marriage bed. At first I thought it was me, that I didn’t please him. I did everything I could, but nothing …” She took a moment to control herself, then struggled on. “It was then I began to think there might be someone else.” She stopped, the pain of memory too strong for her.
Charlotte waited. Instinct made her want to rush forward, put her arms round Veronica and hold her, enfold the pain and ease it, touch her so she was not alone. But she knew she must not, not yet.
At last Veronica mastered herself. “I thought there must be another woman. I found a kerchief in the library. It was a bright cerise color, vivid, vibrant. I knew it wasn’t mine, or Loretta’s. Then a week later I found a ribbon, then a silk rose-all that dreadful color. Robert spent a lot of time away from home; I thought it had to do with his career. I could accept that; we all have to. Women, I mean.”
“You found her?” Charlotte said very quietly.
Veronica drew a deep breath and let it out with a shuddering sigh.
“Yes, I–I saw her, very briefly-right here in my own home. Just the back of her as she left through the front door. She was so-so graceful! I saw her a second time, at a theater I shouldn’t have been at. I only saw her at a distance across the balcony. When I got there she was gone.” She stopped again.
Charlotte believed the story in spite of herself; the wound was too real to be painted. The memory still hurt Veronica with a raw and twisting pain.
“Go on,” Charlotte prompted, this time more gently. “Did you find her?”
“I found one of her stockings.” Veronica’s voice was thick with the agony of reliving it. “In Robert’s bedroom. It was so … I wept all that night. I thought I should never feel worse in my life.” She gave a little choking sound, half laugh, half sob. “That’s what I thought then! Until the night I knew Cerise was in the house. Something woke me. It was after midnight and I heard a footstep on the landing. I got up and saw her come out of Robert’s bedroom and go downstairs. I followed her. She must have heard me and slipped into the library. I-” She stopped again; her voice died away, thick with tears.
“I went in too. I faced her,” she managed after a time. “She was-beautiful. I swear she was.” She turned and looked up at Charlotte, her face smudged, blurred with misery and defeat. “She was so. . elegant. I faced her, accused her of having an affair with Robert. She started to laugh. She stood there in the library in the middle of the night and laughed at me as if she would never stop. I was so furious I picked up the bronze horse from the desk and
