Charlotte had the sudden, intense feeling that the two women disliked each other, perhaps even more than that.
Veronica stiffened, and a tightness crept into her neck, the long line of her throat, and her passionate mouth. She said nothing. Charlotte believed they were speaking of something quite different, and for all the tension between them and the underlying violence, they understood each other perfectly.
“Of course,” Charlotte murmured. After all, she was supposed to have spent the last two years nursing a sickly relative. What sacrifice to duty could an unmarried woman have greater than that? “Families are bound by both love and obligation.” It was almost time for them to leave. She must make one last effort at learning something deeper, beyond this sharp, unhappy impression. She discreetiy glanced rapidly round the room, without turning her head. She noticed an ormolu clock. If she were going to lie, she might as well do it in the grand manner.
“Oh what a delightful clock,” she said admiringly. “My cousin used to have one very like that, only a trifle smaller, I think, and one of the figures was clothed differently.” She shivered to add verisimilitude. “Unfortunately it was taken in a robbery. Such a dreadful experience.” She ignored Jack’s horrified expression and plunged on. “Quite as painful as the loss of possessions was the awful feeling that someone had broken into your house and perhaps actually stood within yards of your bedroom as you lay asleep! It took us all ages before we could retire again with the slightest peace of mind.” Through her lashes she was watching their faces. She was rewarded by a gasp from Veronica and a sudden rigidity in Mrs. York’s body under its folds of sumptuous silk. “We called the police, of course,” she went on relentlessly, “but no one was caught. And none of our precious things was ever recovered.”
Veronica opened her mouth, sat perfectly still, then closed it without speaking.
“What a misfortune for you.” Mrs. York’s voice was quite low, but there was a curious edge to it, and her words were unusually distinct, as if her control over them were precarious. “I am afraid it is part of present-day life. One is seldom as safe as one imagines. Be thankful, Miss Barnaby, that it was only goods of which you were robbed.”
Charlotte maintained her facade of innocence, although it stabbed her conscience. She gazed back at Mrs. York in bewilderment. Jack had already affected ignorance of the affair, so he could not now help. Charlotte saw the color drain from Veronica’s face. Again she seemed about to speak but then to lose the words. She raised her eyes to her mother-in-law, then before their glances met she looked away again.
Finally it was the older woman who broke the hot silence.
“My son was killed by an intruder in the house, Miss Barnaby. It is something we still find too distressing to discuss. That is what made me say you were fortunate to have lost only material possessions.”
“Oh, I am so sorry!” Charlotte said instantly. “Please forgive me for having brought you pain. How could I have been so clumsy.” A real feeling of guilt was burning inside her already. Not everything can be justified by the need for solutions to mysteries, however intriguing, or needed for Emily’s sake.
“You could not know,” Veronica said huskily. “Please do not feel at fault. I promise you, we do not hold you so.”
“I am sure your sensitivity will prevent you from raising the subject again,” Mrs. York said levelly, and Charlotte felt the heat rise in her cheeks.
Veronica was quick to see her embarrassment and rushed to ease it. “That hardly needs to be said, Mama- in-law!” Her tone carried reproof, and the undertone of dislike was there again, bleak and painful in this opulent and comfortable room. It was not a flash of irritation but a long-lived and bitter thing, surfacing suddenly. “I am sure Miss Barnaby needs to feel no blame for having mentioned her own misfortune; how could she have known of our- our tragedies? One cannot cease from all conversation in case it should waken a painful memory in someone else.”
“I believe that was the substance of my remark.” Mrs. York stared at her daughter-in-law, her brilliant eyes almost hypnotic in their concentration. “If Miss Barnaby is the person of sensibility I take her to be, having discovered our loss, she will not mention any subject close to it again while in our company. Surely that is plain enough?”
Veronica turned to Charlotte and put out her hand. “I hope you will call on us again, Miss Barnaby, and that you will come to the academy with me. I most sincerely meant my invitation; it was not merely a pleasantry.”
“I shall be delighted,” Charlotte said, taking the offered hand warmly. “It will be the greatest pleasure, and I look forward to it.” She rose. It was now time to leave; after that conversation it was the only possible course. Jack rose also and together they expressed their thanks and good wishes, and five minutes later they were in the chilly carriage with the clatter of hooves and the hissing of wheels in the rain. Charlotte wrapped the rug round herself more tightly, but nothing could keep all the icy spears of the draft away. Next time she borrowed a gown from Emily she would take a fur muff to go with it!
“I assume you will be going to the academy with Veronica?” Jack said after a moment or two.
“Of course!” She turned in her seat to look at him. “Don’t you think there is a great deal between Veronica and Mrs. York which the police could never discover? I think they both know something about the night of the burglary-although how we’ll ever learn it I can’t imagine.”
3
Pitt had no idea that Charlotte had gone to Hanover Close. He both knew and understood her concern for Emily, and he expected her to use all her powers of judgment and deduction to find out just how Emily felt about Jack Radley and to measure his worthiness if Emily truly cared for him. And if it turned out he was not satisfactory, there would be the major challenge of either dissuading Emily from pursuing it any further or discouraging Radley himself. Pitt suspected that it might well take all Charlotte’s skill to bring the affair to the conclusion that would cause Emily the least pain. Therefore he did not mention the York burglary or Robert York’s death to Charlotte again, nor keep her up to date on his own pursuit of a solution.
Ballarat was evasive about the precise reason for opening the case again; it was unclear whether they hoped to discover who had murdered Robert York at this late date, or whether learning the motive was the real purpose of the investigation. Perhaps they wanted to establish beyond a doubt that it had been no more than a simple robbery that had erupted into unplanned violence, putting an end to the rumors of treason once and for all. Or were they really concerned that Veronica York was somehow involved, the unwitting catalyst of a crime of passion inexpertly covered to look like robbery? Or did they know the truth, and simply wish to make doubly sure it was successfully concealed forever by having the police test it, and if it did not break, then they could rest easy that it was buried beyond anyone’s recall?
Pitt found this last possibility acutely distasteful, and possibly he wronged his superiors by letting it enter his mind, but he was determined to think it through until he could present Ballarat with an answer that was beyond denial or dispute.
He began with the stolen articles, and the curious fact that none of them had turned up in the places one might have expected despite the vigorous search the police had kept up throughout the following year. All the well- known fences, pawnbrokers, and less fastidious collectors of objects d’arts had been questioned at regular intervals as a matter of course, and on each occasion the York pieces had been on the list of goods mentioned.
But Pitt had been in the Metropolitan Police for nearly twenty years and he knew people Ballarat had never heard of, secretive, dangerous people who tolerated him for past and future favors. And it was to these he went while Charlotte was arranging her visit to the drawing rooms of Hanover Close.
He left Bow Street and walked sharply eastward towards the Thames, disappearing into one of the vast dockland slums. He passed crowded, warped buildings, dark under the lowering skies and filled with the sour reek of the fog that crept up from the slow, gray-black water of the river. There were no carriages with lamps and footmen here, only dim wagons laden with bales for the wharves and carts with a few limp vegetables for sale. A tinker with pans clattered as he jiggled over the uneven cobbles, an old-clothes seller shouted, “Ol’ clo’! Ol’ clo’!” in a mournful, penetrating voice. His horse’s hooves had no echo in the drenching gloom.
Pitt walked quickly, his head down and his shoulders hunched. He wore old boots with loose soles and a grimy jacket, torn at the back, which he kept for such visits. He pulled the thin collar up round his ears now, but still
