grandmothers die.”
“I shall see that you are properly provided for,” he countered. “And your husband. Emily doesn’t count. She will be put away quietly somewhere, in a private asylum for the insane, where she can’t kill anyone else.”
Her chin came up and her face was tight and frightened. “I’m going to marry Mungo Hare, whatever you say!”
For an icy moment he was speechless. Then the torrent broke.
“You are not, my girl! You are going to marry whomever I tell you! And I say you will marry Jack Radley. And if he proves unsuitable, or unwilling, then I will find someone else. But you are most certainly not going to marry that penniless young man with no family. What in heaven’s name are you thinking of, child? No daughter of mine marries a curate! An archdeacon perhaps, but not a curate! And that one hasn’t even any prospects. I forbid you to meet or speak to him again! I shall talk to Beamish and see that Hare does not call at this house in future, nor will you have occasion to speak with him in church. And if you do not give me your word on it, then I shall tell Beamish that Hare has made advances towards you, and he will be defrocked. Do you understand me, Anastasia?”
Tassie was so stunned she seemed to sway.
“Now, go to your room and remain there till I tell you you may come out!” Eustace added. He swung round to Charlotte. “And you, Mrs. Pitt, may take your leave as soon as you have packed whatever belongings you have.”
“But first I would like to speak with you, Mr. March.” Charlotte had one card to play, and the decision was made without hesitation. She met his eyes levelly. “We have something to discuss.”
“I-” He teetered on the edge of defying her, his mouth a thin line, his cheeks purple. But his nerve failed. “Go to your room, Anastasia!” he barked furiously.
Charlotte turned to her with a brief smile. “I’ll come and see you in a few minutes,” she said quietly. “Don’t worry.”
Tassie waited a moment, her eyes wide; then, seeing something in Charlotte’s face, she let go of the bannister, turned slowly, and climbed up the stairs and disappeared onto the landing.
“Well?” Eustace demanded, but his voice had a tremor, and the belligerence in his face was artificial.
Charlotte debated for an instant whether to try subtlety or to be so direct he could not possibly mistake her. She knew her limitations, and chose the latter.
“I think you should allow Tassie to continue with her work to help the poor,” she said, as calmly as she could, “and marry Mr. Hare as soon as it can be arranged without seeming hasty and causing unkind remarks.”
“Out of the question.” He shook his head. “Quite out of the question. He has no money, no family, and no prospects.”
She did not bother to argue Mungo Hare’s virtues; they would weigh little with Eustace. She struck at him where he was vulnerable.
“If you do not,” she said slowly and clearly, meeting his eyes, “I shall see that your affair with your son’s wife becomes public property. So far it is only with the police, and although it is disgusting, it is not a crime. But if Society were aware of it, your position would be untenable. Nearly everyone will turn a blind eye to a little discreet philandering, but seducing your son’s wife in your own house-over Christmas! And then continuing to force yourself on her-”
“Stop it!” The cry was dragged out of him. “Stop it!”
“The queen would not approve,” she went on mercilessly. “She is rather a prudish old lady, with an obsession about virtue, especially marital virtue and family life. There would be no peerage for you if she knew this. In fact, you would be wiped off every guest list in London.”
“All right!” The surrender was strangled in his throat, his eyes beseeching. “All right! She can marry the bloody curate! For God’s sake don’t tell anyone about Sybilla! I didn’t kill her-or George. I swear it!”
“Possibly.” She would give him nothing. “The police have the diary, and as long as you are guilty of no crime against the law, there is no reason why they should ever make it known. I shall ask my husband to destroy it-after the murder is solved. For William’s sake, not yours.”
He swallowed hard and spoke with difficulty, hating every word. “Do you give me your word?”
“I just did. Now, if you’ll excuse me I would like to go to bed; it has been a very long and arduous night. And I would like to tell Tassie the good news. She will be very happy. I think she loves Mr. Hare very much. An excellent choice. I shall not see you at breakfast-I think I will have it in bed, if you will be so kind as to order it for me. But I’ll see you at luncheon, and dinner.”
He made a stifled sound that she took for assent.
“Good night, Mr. March.”
“Ah-aaah!” he groaned.
11
While Charlotte was enjoying breakfast in bed and telling Emily about the night’s events, Pitt was reexamining the address book found in Sybilla’s vanity case. By late morning he and Stripe had accounted for all entries but one. They were addresses he would expect to find any Society woman making note of: relatives, mostly elderly; a number of cousins; friends-some of whom had married and moved to other parts of the country, particularly in the winter, out of the Season, others who were merely social acquaintances with whom it was advantageous to keep up some relationship; and the usual tradesmen-two dressmakers, an herbalist, a milliner, a corsetiere, a florist, a perfumer, and others in similar occupations.
The one he could not place was a Clarabelle Mapes, at 3 Tortoise Lane. The only Tortoise Lane he knew of was a grubby little street in St. Giles, hardly an area where Sybilla March would have occasion to call. Possibly it was a charity of some sort to which she gave her support, an orphanage or workhouse. It was a matter of diligence, overly fussy and probably a waste of time-his superior was certainly of that opinion and said so witheringly-but Pitt decided to call at 3 Tortoise Lane. It was just possible Mrs. Clarabelle Mapes might know something which would add to the close but still indistinguishable picture he had of the Marches.
Much of St. Giles was too narrow to ride through and he left his cab some half mile from Tortoise Lane and walked. The buildings were mean and gray, jettied stories overhung the streets, and there was a fetor of hot air and old sewage. Spindly clerks with stovepipe hats and shiny trousers hurried by clutching papers. A screever, wire-rimmed spectacles on his nose, shuffled aside to allow Pitt to pass. The sun was beating down from a flat, windless sky, and there was smoke strong in the air.
A one-legged man on a crutch hawked matches, a youth held a tray of bootlaces, a girl offered tiny homemade childrens’ clothes. Pitt bought something from her. It was too small for his own children, but he could not bear the pain of passing her by, even though he knew dozens would-if not today, then tomorrow-and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
A coster pushed a barrow of vegetables down the middle of the street, the wheels jiggling noisily over the cobbles. The girl went to him immediately and spent all the few coins Pitt had given her, disappearing with the vegetables in her apron.
Had Eustace March really murdered George to keep secret his affair with his daughter-in-law, and then murdered her when she realized his guilt? He would like to have believed it. Almost everything about Eustace offended him; his complacence, his willing blindness to other people’s need or pain, his unctuous overbearing manner, his virility and dynastic pride. But perhaps he was not wildly untypical of many socially ambitious patriarchs possessed of vigor and money. He was self-absorbed, insensitive rather than deliberately malicious. Most of the time he was convinced he was totally in the right about everything that mattered, and a lot that did not. Pitt had no awareness of a violence or fear in him that would drive him to commit a double murder, least of all in his own house.
Then there was Charlotte’s lurid story of Tassie creeping up the stairs splattered with blood. And in spite of her protestations, he was still not absolutely sure she had not walked in a nightmare-the whole idea was so absurd. Perhaps in the faint gaslight of the night lamps, ordinary water splashed on a dress, or even wine, might have looked to a frightened imagination like blood. Above all, there was no one who had been stabbed. Except, of course, the horrific murder in Bloomsbury-but there was no reason to believe that had any connection with Cardington
