own bed. He was tired enough to sleep within a few minutes, but he woke in the morning aware of an incompleteness, and sometimes he was actually physically cold.
In the mornings Gracie reported to him the events of the previous day that she considered important, but it was a shy, bare account-nothing like Charlotte’s, full of opinion, detail, and drama. He used to think her incessant talking through breakfast an intrusion, one of the penalties men invariably pay for marriage. But without it he found himself unable to concentrate on the newspaper and taking little pleasure in it.
Now he inquired of the footman where she was, and was shown into the overcrowded boudoir, close as a hothouse, and requested to wait. It was less than five minutes before Charlotte came in and, pushing the door closed sharply behind her, threw her arms round him and clung to him fiercely. She made no sound, but he could feel that she was weeping, a tired, slow letting go of tears.
Presently he kissed her-her hair, her brow, her cheek-then he passed her his only decent handkerchief, waiting while she blew her nose savagely, twice.
“How are the children?” she asked, swallowing and looking up at him. “Has Daniel cut that tooth yet? I thought he was getting a bit feverish-”
“He’s perfectly all right,” he assured her. “You’ve only been gone a couple of days.”
But she was not satisfied. “What about the tooth? Are you sure he isn’t feverish?”
“Yes, I’m quite sure. Gracie says he’s fine, and eating all his meals.”
“He won’t eat cabbage. She knows that.”
“May I have my handkerchief back? It’s the only one I’ve got.”
“I’ll get you one of-of George’s. Why haven’t you got any handkerchiefs? Isn’t Gracie doing the laundry?”
“Of course she is. I just forgot.”
“She should put it in your pocket for you. Are you all right, Thomas?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“I’m glad.” But her voice was doubtful. She sniffed, and then changed her mind and blew her nose again. “I suppose you don’t know anything about George yet. I don’t. The more I watch the less I seem to see.”
He put his hand on her shoulder gently, feeling her warm beneath his touch.
“We will,” he said with more conviction than he had any grounds for. “It’s too soon yet. How is Emily?”
“Feeling ill, and frightened. I–I think she found letting Edward go back with Mrs. Stevenson the hardest thing. He’s so awfully young-he doesn’t understand. But he will, soon. He’ll-”
“Let’s solve today’s problems first,” he interrupted. “We’ll help with Edward after-”
“Yes, of course.” She swallowed again and unconsciously rubbed her hands over her skirt. “We must know more about the Marches. It was one of them, or … or Jack Radley.”
“Why do you hesitate before you mention him?”
She looked down, avoiding his eyes. “I suppose-” She stopped.
“Are you afraid Emily encouraged him?” he asked, hating to say it. But if he did not it would still hang between them; they knew each other too well to lie, even by silence.
“No!” But she knew he did not believe her. It was the answer of loyalty, not conviction. “I don’t know,” she added, trying to find something closer to the truth. “I don’t think she meant to.” She took a deep breath. “How are you getting on with the Bloomsbury case? You must be busy with that as well.”
“I’m not.” He felt a heaviness as he said it. He had no hope of solving that, and no solution would show anything more than a common tragedy he was incapable of preventing again. It was only the grotesqueness of the corpse that marked it in the public mind.
She was looking at him; puzzlement gave way to understanding. “Isn’t there anything? Can’t you even find out who she was?”
“Not yet. But we’re still trying. She could have come from anywhere in a dozen directions. If she was a parlormaid dismissed for immoral conduct, or even because the master of the house made advances to her and the mistress found out, then she could have taken to the streets to earn a living, and been killed by a customer, a pimp, a thief-anyone.”
“Poor woman,” Charlotte said softly. “Then it’s hopeless.”
“Probably. But we’ll keep on a little longer.”
She stared at him fiercely. “But this isn’t hopeless here! Whoever killed George is one of us in this house right now. It’s Jack Radley, or one of the Marches.” She frowned, fighting with herself for a moment and then coming to some decision. “Thomas, I have something very-very ugly to tell you.” And without stopping to watch his face or allow interruption, she recounted exactly what she had seen at the head of the stairs in the middle of the night.
He was confused. Had she been dreaming? She had certainly had enough cause for nightmare in the last few days. Even if she had been awake and really gone to the landing, might not the abrupt arousal from sleep, the flickering of the dim gas night-light, have misled her vision, caused her to imagine blood where there were only shadows?
Now she was staring at him, waiting, looking in his face for an answering horror.
He tried to mask doubt with amazement. “Nobody’s been stabbed,” he said aloud.
“I know that!” Now she was angry, because she was frightened, and she knew he disbelieved her. “But why does anyone creep up the stairs in the small hours reeking of blood? If it was innocent, why has nothing been said? She was perfectly normal this morning. And she wasn’t distressed, Thomas! I swear she was happy!”
“Say nothing,” he warned. “We won’t learn anything by attacking openly. If you are right, then there is something very evil indeed in this house-in this family. For God’s sake, Charlotte, be careful.” He took her by the shoulders. “Perhaps Emily’d better go home, and you go with her.”
“No!” She resisted him, pulling away, her head coming up. “If we don’t find out who it is, and prove it, Emily could be hanged, or at best have the doubt stain her all her life, have people remember and whisper to each other that she might have killed her husband. And even if that were bearable for Emily, it’s not for Edward!”
“I’ll find out without you,” he began grimly, but her face was tight and her eyes hot.
“Maybe. But I can watch and listen in a way you never can, not in this house. Emily is my sister, and I’m going to stay. It would be wrong to run away, and you wouldn’t argue with me about that. And you wouldn’t run.”
He weighed it for a moment. What would happen if he tried to order her home? She would not go; her loyalty to Emily at this moment was greater, rightly so. All his emotion strained backwards, wanting, demanding that she run from the danger; his reason knew it was cowardice, fear for his own pain should anything happen to her. But if he failed to solve this crime, if Emily were hanged, then he would have lost all in his relationship with Charlotte that gave it fire and value.
“All right,” he said at last. “But for the love of heaven, be careful! Someone in this house is murderous-maybe more than one!”
“I know,” she said very quietly. “I know, Thomas.”
Later in the afternoon, Eustace sent for Pitt to come to him in the morning room. He was standing, hands in his pockets, in front of the unlit fireplace, still in the clothes he had worn at the funeral.
“Well, Mr. Pitt?” he began as soon as the door was closed. “How are you proceeding? Have you learned anything of value?”
Pitt was unprepared to commit himself, least of all to say anything about Charlotte’s story of Tassie on the stairs.
“A great deal,” he replied levelly. “But I am not yet sure as to its value.”
“No arrest?” Eustace persisted, his face brightening and his broad shoulders relaxing, making the well-cut jacket sit more evenly without the tensions in the weave. “You don’t surprise me. Domestic tragedy. Told you so in the first place. I daresay a nursing home can be found. There will be no shortage of means, and she can be made very comfortable. Best for all of us. Nothing proved. Not possible. No blame attached to you, my dear fellow. Invidious position for you.”
So he was already preparing to have the case closed and all investigation effectively prevented. It would be so easy for the Marches to protect themselves by blaming Emily. They had barely waited till the body was in the ground before beginning, with a small lie here or there, a very discreet conspiracy, for the sake of them all. They might even convince themselves-all but one-that it really had been Emily who murdered George, in a fit of jealousy. And that one would be the keenest of all, whether they betrayed it or not, to have Emily disposed of quietly and the
