“Because most of them, like Clarabelle Mapes, take the fee from their mothers and then let the sickly ones starve-or actually murder them-rather than spend money on caring for them. The strong or pretty ones they sell.” He saw her face. “I’m sorry. You did ask.”
“Why the Bloomsbury murder?” she asked after a moment’s silence. “Was she the mother of one of the children who was murdered, and discovered the truth?”
“One who was sold.”
“Oh.” She sat down without moving for several minutes, and he did not touch her. Then at last he put out one hand gently. “Why did you go there?” she asked at last.
“The address was in Sybilla’s book.”
She was startled. “The baby farm? But that’s ridiculous. Why?”
“I don’t know. I never found out. I presume Sybilla found it for a servant, one of her own maids or a friend’s. I can’t imagine any of her own circle wanting such a service. Even if they had an illegitimate child, they would find some other provision; a relative in the country, a family retainer in retirement with a daughter.”
“I suppose it was a maid,” Charlotte agreed. “Or else she knew the woman for some other reason. Poor Sybilla.”
“It doesn’t help me any further towards finding out who killed her, or why.”
“You asked the woman, of course?”
He gave a sharp, guttural little laugh. “You didn’t see Clarabelle Mapes, or you wouldn’t ask.”
“Have you no idea who killed George?” She faced him, eyes dark with anxiety, fear heavy at the back of them. He realized again how tired she was, how very troubled.
He touched her cheek gently, slowly. “No, my love, not much. There are only William, Eustace, Jack Radley, and Emily left; unless it was the old woman, which I would dearly like to think, but I know of no reason she would. I can’t even imagine one-and believe me, I’ve tried.”
“You include Emily!”
He closed his eyes, opening them slowly, unhappily. “I have to.”
There was no point in arguing; she knew it to be true. A knock on the door saved her from the necessity of replying.
“Come in,” Pitt said reluctantly.
It was Stripe, looking apologetic and holding a note in his hand.
“Sorry, Mr. Pitt, sir. The police surgeon sent this for you. It don’t make no sense.”
“Give it to me.” Pitt reached out and grabbed it, opening the single sheet and reading.
“What is it?” Charlotte demanded. “What does it say?”
“She was strangled,” he replied quietly, his voice dropping. “By her hair, quick and hard. Very effective.” He saw Charlotte shiver and, out of the corner of his eye, saw Stripe bite his lip. “But she wasn’t carrying a child,” he finished.
Charlotte was stunned. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure!” he said irritably. “Don’t be idiotic. This is from the surgeon who did the postmortem. You can hardly mistake such a thing!”
Charlotte screwed up her face as if she had been physically hurt, and bent her head into her hands. “Poor Sybilla. She must have miscarried, and she dared not tell anyone. How she must have hated Eustace going on and on about how marvelous it was she was going to give William an heir after all this time. No wonder she looked at him with such loathing. And that dreadful old woman haranguing about family! Oh, God, what wounds we inflict on people!”
Pitt looked at Stripe, who was obviously embarrassed at such an intimate subject and hurt by the pity he felt but only half understood. He realized this was a whole sea of pain he did not comprehend.
“Thank you,” Pitt nodded. “I don’t think it helps us, and I see no reason to tell the family. It will only cause unnecessary distress. Let her keep her secret.”
“Yes, sir.” Stripe withdrew, something like relief in his face.
Charlotte looked up and smiled. She did not need to praise him; he knew it was there in all the unsaid words between them.
Luncheon was as miserable as breakfast had been, and Emily sat at the dining room table more in defiance than because of any delusion that it would be more endurable than eating alone in her room. An additional incentive was the growing conviction that the ring was tightening round her, and unless she could find her own escape she was going to be charged with murder.
Charlotte had told her about following Tassie and discovering the secret of her midnight excursions and the blood on her dress. A difficult delivery could be a very messy affair; the afterbirth could look, in the glare of lamplight, like the gore of a butchery. And no wonder Tassie had worn such a look of calm delight! She had witnessed the beginning of a new life, the last act in the creation of a human being. Could anything at all be further from the madness of which they had suspected her?
Thomas had been here this morning, had spoken to Charlotte and left again, without explanation or, apparently, any further investigation. Although, to be fair to him, Emily could think of nothing else for him to ask.
She looked round the table at them from under her lashes, so no one would notice, while she pushed a lump of boiled chicken round her plate. Tassie was sober, but there was a glow of happiness inside her that no awareness of others’ distress could extinguish. Emily found most of her could honestly be pleased for her; only a tiny core, one she would willingly have quenched, was sharp with envy. Then she felt an unclouded sense of relief that there was no reason on earth to suspect Tassie of any kind of guilt, either in George’s death or Sybilla’s. Emily had never wanted to think there was; it was a necessity forced on her by Charlotte’s extraordinary account of the episode on the stairs. Now that was explained in a way better than she could have dreamed.
At the foot of the table, with its snowfield of a cloth and fine Georgian silver, but flowerless in spite of the blaze in the garden, the old woman sat, dour-faced, in black, her fish-blue eyes staring straight ahead of her. Presumably she had not been told either about Tassie’s intention of marrying the curate or of Eustace’s capitulation in allowing her, still less of his reason. And most assuredly she had not learned of Tassie’s midnight excursions. If she had, there would be far more in her present mood than a cold dislike and, perhaps, at the back of that chill expression and the petty angers, a suffocated fear. After all, it was someone in this house who had murdered twice. Even Lavinia March could not pretend to herself it was a foreign force invading her home; it was something within-a part of them.
But she seemed to remain alone in whatever mourning she suffered; it had not driven her to any softening of heart, any understanding of the fear in anyone else. Emily was aware somewhere in the back of her mind that that was perhaps the greatest tragedy of all, far beyond the need to receive pity-the inability to feel it. And yet she could not evoke in herself compassion for those who gave none themselves.
She would dearly have liked to believe the old woman responsible for murder, but she could think of no reason why she should be, nor any evidence whatsoever which suggested that she was. Mrs. March was the only one in the house whose guilt would cause Emily no unhappiness at all. She racked her brain to find anything to support it, and failed.
As if conscious of her thoughts, the old woman looked up from her plate and gazed at her icily. “I imagine after the funeral tomorrow you will be returning to your own house, Emily,” she said with lifted eyebrows. “Presumably the police will equally easily be able to find you there-although most else seems to be beyond them!”
“Yes, certainly I shall,” Emily answered tartly. “It is only for the convenience of the police that I have stayed here so long-and to show some family solidarity. There is no need for the rest of Society to know how little we find each other’s company agreeable, or seem able to offer each other any comfort.” She took a sip of her wine. “Although I don’t know why you think the police are unable to solve the murders.” She used the ugly word deliberately and was pleased to see the old woman wince with distaste. “They undoubtedly know a great deal that they have not chosen to tell you. They will hardly confide in us. After all, it is one of us whom they will arrest.”
“Really!” Eustace said angrily. “Remember yourself, Emily! That kind of remark is quite unnecessary.”
“Of course it is one of us, you fool!” the old woman snapped at him, her hand shaking so hard her wine slopped over the rim of her glass and ran down onto the cloth. “It is Emily herself, and if you do not know that you are the only one here who doesn’t!”
