Lettie blushed a deep pink. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” She looked down at her plate, and beside her one of the upstairs maids giggled, stifling it in her napkin when the butler glared at her.
Stripe felt an undeniable compulsion to defend her. How dare anyone slight her and cause her embarrassment!
“Very dignified of you, miss,” he said, looking straight at her. “Understandin’ adversity and takin’ it calm, like. Good sense is about the best cure for times like these. Lot of ’arm avoided if there was more who showed it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Stripe,” Lettie said demurely. But the pinkness crept further up her cheeks, and he dared to hope it was pleasure.
The rest of the meal passed in conversation about trivialities, but when Stripe could no longer think of anything else to ask, Pitt having exhausted his duties in the front of the house, it was time to leave. He went with regret, replaced by a ridiculous elation as Lettie came down into the kitchen on some slight pretext, caught his eye and bade him good night, and then, swishing her skirt with an elegant little step, vanished up the stairs and into the hallway.
Stripe opened his mouth to reply, but it was too late. He turned and saw Pitt smiling, and knew his admiration-he would still call it that-was too plain in his face.
“Very nice,” Pitt said approvingly. “And sensible.”
“Er, yes, sir.”
Pitt’s smile widened. “But suspicious, Stripe, very suspicious. I think you had better question her a lot more- see what she knows.”
“Oh no, sir! She’s as-Oh.” He caught Pitt’s eye. “Yes, sir, I’ll do that, sir. Tomorrow morning, first thing, sir.”
“Good. And good luck, Stripe.”
But Stripe was too full of emotion to speak.
Upstairs in the dining room, dinner was worse than even Charlotte could have imagined. Everyone was there, including Emily, looking ashen with misery. All the women wore either black or gray, except Aunt Vespasia who always refused to. She wore lavender. The first course was served in near silence. By the time they had let their soup grow cold and pushed whitefish in a sauce like glue from one side of the plate to the other, the oppression was becoming unbearable.
“Impertinent little man!” Mrs. March burst out suddenly.
Everyone froze, horrified, wondering wildly whom she was addressing.
“I beg your pardon?” Jack Radley looked up, eyebrows raised.
“The policeman-Spot, or whatever his name is,” Mrs. March went on. “Asking the servants all sorts of questions about matters that are none of his business.”
“Stripe,” Charlotte said very quietly. It hardly mattered, but she was glad of an excuse to retaliate.
Mrs. March glared at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“Stripe,” Charlotte repeated. “The policeman’s name is Stripe, not Spot.”
“Stripe, Spot, it’s all the same. I’d have thought you’d have more important things to remember than a policeman’s name.” Mrs. March stared at her, her face cold, eyes like bluish-green marbles. “What are you going to do with your sister? You can’t expect us to bear the burden of responsibility. God knows what she will do next!”
“That was uncalled for,” Jack Radley said furiously. There was instant and icy silence, but he was unabashed. “Emily has enough grief without our indulging in vicious and uninformed speculation.”
Mrs. March sniffed and cleared her throat. “Your speculation may be uninformed, Mr. Radley-although I doubt it. Mine is most certainly not. You may know Emily a great deal more intimately than I do, but you have not known her as long.”
“For heaven’s sake, Lavinia!” Vespasia said hoarsely. “Have you forgotten every vestige of good manners? Emily has buried her husband today, and we have guests at the table.”
Two spots of scarlet stained Mrs. March’s white cheeks. “I will not be criticized in my own house!” she said furiously, her voice rising to a shriek.
“Since you hardly ever leave it anymore, it would seem to be the only place available,” Aunt Vespasia snapped back at her.
“I might have expected that from you!” Mrs. March swung round to glare at Vespasia and knocked over a glass of water. It rolled across the cloth and dripped water noisily down into Jack Radley’s lap, soaking him to the skin, but he was too paralyzed with horror at the scene to move.
“You are perfectly accustomed to having the most vulgar people tramping through your house,” Mrs. March went on, “probing and prying, and talking of obscenities and God knows what among the criminal classes.”
Sybilla gasped and tore her handkerchief. Jack Radley looked at Vespasia in fascination.
“That’s nonsense!” Tassie flew to her favorite grandmother’s defense. “Nobody’s vulgar in front of Grandmama-she wouldn’t let them be! And Constable Stripe is only doing his duty.”
“And if somebody hadn’t murdered George, he wouldn’t have any duty to do in Cardington Crescent,” Eustace pointed out exasperatedly. “And don’t be impertinent to your grandmother, Anastasia, or I shall require you to finish your dinner upstairs in your room.”
Temper flashed in Tassie’s face, but she said nothing more. Her father had dismissed her in the past, and she knew he would do it quite easily now.
“George’s death is not Aunt Vespasia’s fault,” Charlotte said for her. “Unless you are suggesting she killed him?”
“Hardly.” Mrs. March sniffed again, a sound full of irritation and contempt. “Vespasia may be eccentric, even a little senile, but she is still one of us. She would never do such a fearful thing. And she is not your aunt.”
“You’ve tipped your water all over our guests,” Vespasia said curtly. “Poor Mr. Radley is soaked. Do look what you are doing, Lavinia.”
It was so trivial and idiotic it effectively silenced Mrs. March, and there were several moments of peace while the next course was served.
Eustace drew in his breath; his chest swelled. “We have a most distasteful time ahead of us,” he said looking round at each of them in turn. “Whatever our individual weaknesses, we none of us desire a
“I don’t see how we can avoid it, Papa,” Tassie said into the silence. “If it really was murder. Personally I think it was probably some sort of accident, in spite of what Mr. Pitt says. Why on earth would anyone want to kill George?”
“You are very young, child,” Mrs. March said with a curl of her lips. “And very ignorant. There are a multitude of things you do not know, and probably never will, unless you fill out a little and manage to hide all those freckles. To the rest of us it is perfectly obvious, if excessively distasteful.” Again she let her fish-blue eyes rest on Emily.
Tassie opened her mouth to retaliate but closed it again. Charlotte felt a sudden surge of anger for her. Above all things being patronized galled her soul.
“Neither do I,” she said bluntly, “know of any reason why someone should have killed George.”
“You would say that, wouldn’t you.” Mrs. March stared at her malevolently. “I always said George married badly.”
Fire rushed up Charlotte’s cheeks and the blood pounded in her temples. The hard, accusing look in the old woman’s eyes was too plain to misunderstand. She thought Emily had murdered George and intended to see her punished for it.
She gulped air and then hiccuped loudly. Everyone was looking at her, their faces a pale sea mirrored with eyes, horrified, embarrassed, compassionate, accusing. She hiccuped again.
Next to her William leaned forward, poured her a glass of water, and passed it to her. She took it from him in silence, hiccuping once more, then drank a little and tried holding her breath, her napkin held to her lips.
“At least George’s wife was his own choice.” Vespasia filled the void with chipped ice. “He was encumbered with
