“On the contrary, I shall send for her sister this afternoon. But rather before that, I fancy, we shall have her brother-in-law here.”
Mrs. March’s eyebrows rose; they were round and a little heavy, like Eustace’s, only her eyes were black.
“Has your bereavement robbed you of your wits, Vespasia? You will not have a vulgar policeman in my house. The fact that he is related to Emily is unfortunate, but it is not a burden we are called upon to bear.”
“It will be the least of them,” Vespasia said baldly. “George was murdered.”
Mrs. March stared at her for several seconds in silence. Then she reached for the flowered porcelain bell on the table and rang it instantly.
“I shall have your maid attend you. You had better lie down with a tisane and some salts. You have taken leave of your senses. Let us hope it is temporary. You should take a companion. I always said you spent too much time alone; you are a prey to unfortunate influences, but I am sure you are more sinned against than sinning. It is all most unfortunate. If the doctor is still in the house, I’ll send him up to you.” She rang the bell again so furiously she was in danger of cracking it. “Where on earth is that stupid maid? Can no one come when they are told?”
“For heaven’s sake, put it down and stop that racket!” Vespasia ordered. “Treves says George was poisoned with digitalis.”
“Nonsense! Or if he was, then he took his own life in a fit of despair. Everyone can see he is in love with Sybilla.”
“He was infatuated with her,” Vespasia corrected almost without thinking. It was only a matter of fact, and almost irrelevant now. “It is not at all the same thing. Men like George don’t kill themselves over women, you should know that. He could have had Sybilla if he wanted her, and probably did.”
“Don’t be coarse, Vespasia! Vulgarity is quite uncalled for!”
“He also killed the dog,” Vespasia added.
“What are you talking about? What dog? Who killed a dog?”
“Whoever killed George.”
“What dog? What has a dog to do with it?”
“Your dog, I’m afraid. The little spaniel. I’m sorry.”
“That proves you’re talking nonsense. George would never kill my dog. He was extremely fond of it-in fact he practically took it from me!”
“That is my point, Lavinia; someone else killed them both. Martin has sent for the police.”
Before Mrs. March could find a retort to that the door opened and a white-faced footman appeared.
“Yes, ma’am?”
Vespasia stood up. “I do not require anything, thank you. Perhaps you had better bring a fresh dish of tea for Mrs. March.” She walked past him and across the hallway to the stairs.
Emily woke up from a sleep so deep, at first she was confused and could not remember where she was. The room was very Oriental, full of whites and greens, with bamboo-patterned wallpaper and brocade curtains with chrysanthemums. The sun was off the windows, and yet the air was full of light.
Then she remembered it was afternoon-Cardington Crescent-she and George were staying with Uncle Eustace…. It all came back in an icy wave engulfing her: George was dead.
She lay and stared at the ceiling without seeing, her eyes fixed on the scrolls of the plasterwork; it could as well have been waves of the sea or summer leaves on a branch.
“Emily.”
She did not answer. What was there to say to anyone?
“Emily.” The voice was insistent.
She sat up. Perhaps replying would provide a diversion, an escape from her thoughts. She could forget for a few moments.
Aunt Vespasia was standing in front of her, Vespasia’s maid a little behind. She must have been there all the time-Emily could remember seeing her white cap and apron and her black dress last thing before she closed her eyes. She had brought her a drink-bitter-it must have had laudanum in it. That was why she had slept when she had thought it impossible.
“Emily!”
“Yes, Aunt Vespasia?”
Vespasia sat down on the bed and put her hand over Emily’s on top of the smooth, embroidered edge of the sheet. It looked very thin and frail, an old hand, blue-veined and spotted with age. In fact, Vespasia looked old; there were hollows of shock round her eyes, and the fine-grained skin that had for so long been blemishless was somehow shadowed.
“I have sent for Charlotte to come and be with you.” Vespasia was talking to her. Emily made an effort to listen, to understand. “I have sent my carriage for her, and I hope she will be here by this evening.”
“Thank you,” Emily murmured automatically. It would be better to have Charlotte here, she supposed. It did not seem to matter a lot. Nobody could change anything, and she did not want to be forced into doing things, making decisions, feeling.
Vespasia’s grip was tighter on her hand. It hurt. “Before that, my dear, Thomas will be here,” Vespasia went on.
“Thomas?” Emily repeated with a frown. “You shouldn’t have sent for Thomas! They’ll never let him in-they’ll be rude to him! Why on earth did you send for Thomas?” She stared. Had Aunt Vespasia been so shaken by grief she had lost all her common sense? Thomas was a policeman-in the eyes of the Marches little better than one of the less desirable tradesmen, on a level with other such necessary evils as a ratcatcher or cleaner of drains. She felt a sudden rush of pity for her, and anger that Aunt Vespasia, whom she admired so much, should be reduced to foolishness-and in the Marches’ house of all places. She gripped her hand tightly. “Aunt Vespasia …”
“My dear.” Vespasia’s voice was very soft, as if she found it difficult to speak, and her eyes, with their magnificent hooded lids, were full of tears. “My dear, George was murdered. He can hardly have known it, or felt pain, but it is indisputable. I have sent for Thomas in his office as policeman. I pray that it will be he who comes.”
Then the answers came flooding in wave after wave of horror: Sybilla, because he had rejected her in whatever quarrel Emily had half overheard last night; or William, in jealousy-that would be so easily understandable….
Or worst of all, Jack Radley. If he had some insane idea, after the ridiculous scene in the conservatory, that Emily meant something more than a stupid flirtation-that she could possibly-That thought was obscene, hideous. She would be responsible for deluding him, for encouraging the man to murder George!
She closed her eyes, as if she could shut out the thought with darkness. But it persisted, ugly and violently real, and the hot tears trickling down her face washed nothing away, even when she bent her head on Vespasia’s shoulder and felt her arms tighten round her and at last let herself go in the weeping she had held within too long.
5
Pitt returned along the hot, dusty street amid the clatter of hooves, the hiss of wheels, and the shouting of a dozen different sorts of vendors of everything from flowers, bootlaces, and matches to the collection of rags and bones. Nine- or ten-year-old boys shouted where they swept a footpath between the horse droppings so gentlemen might pass from one pavement to another without soiling their boots and ladies might keep the hems of their skirts clean.
Constable Stripe was waiting at the station entrance. “Mr. Pitt, sir, we’ve bin looking all over the place for you! I told ’em as you’d bin to find that magsman.”
Pitt caught his alarm. “What is it? Have you turned up something in the Bloomsbury case?”
Stripe’s face was pale. “No, sir. This is much worse, in a manner o’ speaking. I’m that sorry, sir. Truly I
