“Don’t be silly!” He had begun to lose control, because he understood what he was asking of her and he knew of no other way. “Do you want me to have to get one of the maids? I’m not asking Emily!”
She had stared at him in horror; then, seeing the desperation in his eyes, hearing the edge of it mounting in his voice, she had taken a step towards the bed, still refusing to look at the exact spot where she had seen Sybilla.
“Take the other one.” He had yielded, pointing to the bedpost at the opposite side. “Sit there and reach behind your neck, round the post.”
Slowly, stiffly, she had done as he ordered, stretching her arms up behind her head, reaching the post, feeling her fingers round it, pretending to tie something.
“Lower down,” he had commanded.
She bent them a little lower.
“Now pull,” he had said. “Make it tighter.” He had taken her hands and pulled them down and away.
“I can’t!” Her arms had hurt, her muscles strained. “It’s too low down-I can’t pull that low. Thomas, you’re hurting me!”
He had let go. “That’s what I thought,” he had said huskily. “No woman could have pulled at it that low down behind her own neck.” He had knelt on the bed beside her, put his arms round her, and buried his face in her hair, kissing her slowly, holding her tighter and tighter. There had been no need for either of them to say it. They stayed there close in the silent certainty: Sybilla had been murdered.
Charlotte’s mind returned to the present, to the breakfast table and its painful charade of normality. She wanted to be gentle, comforting, but there was no time. She swallowed the last of her tea and looked round at each of them.
“We have our senses, and some intelligence,” she said distinctly. “One of us murdered George, and now Sybilla. I think we had better find out who, before it gets any worse.”
Mrs. March shut her eyes and grasped for Tassie’s arm, her thin fingers like claws, surprisingly brown, spotted with old age. “I think I am going to faint!”
“Put your head between your knees,” Vespasia said wearily.
The old woman’s eyes snapped open. “Don’t be ridiculous!” she snarled. “You may choose to sit at the breakfast table with your legs around your ears-it would be like you. But I do not!”
“Not very practical.” Emily looked up for the first time. “I don’t suppose she could.”
Vespasia did not bother to lift her eyes from her plate. “I have some sal volatile, if you want it.”
Eustace ignored her, staring at Charlotte. “Do you think that is wise, Mrs. Pitt?” he said without blinking. “The truth may be of a highly distressing nature, especially for you.”
Charlotte knew precisely what he meant, both as to the nature of the truth he believed and how he intended it should be presented to the police.
“Oh, yes.” Her voice was shaking, and she was furious with herself, but she found she could not prevent it. “I am less afraid of what might be discovered than I am of allowing it to remain hidden where it may strike again-and kill someone else.”
William froze. Vespasia put her hand up to her eyes and leaned forward over the table.
“Bad blood,” Mrs. March said with harsh intensity, gripping her spoon so hard it scattered sugar over the cloth. “It always tells in the end. No matter how fine the face, how pretty the manners, blood counts. George was a fool! An irresponsible, disloyal fool. Careless marriages are the cause of half the misery in the world.”
“Fear,” Charlotte contradicted deliberately. “I would have said it was fear that caused the most misery, fear of pain, fear of looking ridiculous, of being inadequate. And most of all, fear of loneliness-the dread that no one will love you.”
“You speak for yourself, girl!” Mrs. March spat at her, turning, white-faced, her eyes blazing. “The Marches have nothing to be afraid of!”
“Don’t be idiotic, Lavinia.” Vespasia sat up, pushing her fallen hair off her brow. “The only people who don’t know fear are the saints of God, whose vision of heaven is stronger than the flesh, and those simpletons who have not enough imagination to conceive of pain. We at this table are all terrified.”
“Perhaps Mrs. March is one of the saints of God?” Jack Radley said sarcastically.
“Hold your tongue!” Mrs. March shouted. “The sooner that incompetent policeman takes you away the better. If you didn’t murder poor George, then you certainly inspired Emily to do it. Either way, you are guilty and should be hanged!”
The blood fled his face, but he did not look away. There was a vacuum of silence. Somewhere across the hall a footman’s steps sounded loudly till they died away beyond the baize door. Even Eustace was motionless.
Vespasia rose to her feet stiffly, as if her back hurt her. Eyes glazed, William rose also and pulled out her chair, steadying her arm.
“I assume Mr. Beamish will send Mr. Hare to console us again,” she said quietly, and with only the slightest tremor, “which is as well; he will be infinitely more use. If he calls I shall be in my room. I would like to see him.”
“Would you like us to send for the doctor, Grandmama?” William found his voice with difficulty. He looked as if he were walking in a nightmare through which he had struggled all night, only to wake and find it still with him, stretching into endless, unalterable reality.
“No, thank you, my dear.” Vespasia patted his hand, and then walked slowly from the room, keeping her balance with care.
“Excuse me.” Charlotte set her napkin by her plate and followed Vespasia out, catching up with her in the hallway and taking her elbow all the way up the long, wide stairs. For once Vespasia did not resist her.
“Would you like me to stay with you?” she asked at the door of the bedroom.
Vespasia looked at her steadily, her face weary and frightened. “Do you know anything, Charlotte?”
“No,” Charlotte said honestly. “But if Emily is right Sybilla hated Eustace, whether for herself or for William or for Tassie, I don’t know.”
Vespasia’s lips tightened and her eyes looked even more wretched. “For William, I should imagine,” she said in barely more than a whisper. “Eustace has never known when to hold his tongue. He is not a sensitive man.”
Charlotte hesitated, on the brink of asking if there was anything else, but drew back from probing any more. She gave the shadow of a smile, and left her.
The idea was hardening in her, and as soon as she was sure the landing was clear, Charlotte went to Sybilla’s door and tried it. The servants had naturally been told what happened, and no maid would venture in here. Pitt had moved Sybilla to the long seat by the window before, for his experiment on the bed, but perhaps he had lifted her back now, to rest in some attitude of peace, providing one did not see the face.
The door was not locked. Maybe there was no need; who would return, except in grief, and in humanity that must be allowed? Both Pitt and Treves must already have seen everything they could, and presumably gone down to the butler’s pantry to consult.
She glanced round the landing once more, then turned the handle and went in. The room faced south and was full of light. There was a shape on the bed, under a sheet. She kept her eyes from it, although she knew perfectly well precisely what she would see if she were to take it off. She must control her imagination and a surprisingly sharp sense of pity, which tugged at her like a bruise of the mind. Sybilla had caused Emily dreadful pain, and yet perversely she could not loathe her as she wished, even when she was alive. She was aware of some hard knot of hurt in Sybilla also, something growing and becoming worse, more acute. She could only hate the comfortable, the unmarked, because she felt alien from them. The moment she saw the wound and believed the pain, her anger slipped away like sand through a sieve. So it had been with Sybilla, and now she intended to search for some sign of what had been the cause.
She stared round. Where to begin? Where did she keep her own private things, things that would reveal to another woman her frailties? Not the wardrobe-that would hold only clothes, and one did not leave private things in a pocket. The bedside table had a small drawer, but maids might tidy that; there was no lock on it. Still she pulled it open in case, and found only handkerchiefs, a lavender bag smelling sweet and dry, a twist of paper that had contained a headache powder, and a bottle of smelling salts. Nothing.
Next she tried the dressing table and found all the things she would have expected: brushes and combs, silk scarves for polishing hair, pins, perfumes and cosmetics. She would like one day to learn how to use them as skillfully as Sybilla had. The thought of the murdered woman’s beauty was peculiarly painful, seeing these small
