Charlotte opened it herself.
Emily looked elegant, even at that hour, her fair hair swept fashionably high under a delicious hat, and a dress of the limpid shade of green that suited her best.
She pushed her way in past Charlotte and marched down to the kitchen, where Gracie bobbed a quick curtsy and fled upstairs to tidy the nursery.
“Well?” Emily demanded. “What on earth has happened? For goodness’ sake, tell me!”
Charlotte was genuinely pleased to see her; it had been some little while since they had spent any time together. She put her arms around her in a swift hug.
Emily responded warmly but with impatience.
“What has happened?” she repeated urgently. “Who is dead? How? And what has it to do with Mama?”
“Sit down.” Charlotte pointed to one of the kitchen chairs. “It’s quite a long story, and it won’t make a lot of sense unless I tell it from the beginning. Would you like some luncheon?”
“If you insist. But tell me who is dead, before I explode! And what has it to do with Mama? From the way you wrote, she is in danger herself.”
“A woman called Mina Spencer-Brown is dead. At first it looked like suicide, but now Thomas says it is almost certainly murder. I have onion soup—would you like some?”
“No, I would not! Whatever possessed you to cook onion soup?”
“I felt like it. I’ve wanted onion soup for days now.”
Emily regarded her with a look of pain.
“If you had to have a craving because of your condition, couldn’t you have made it for something a little more civilized? Really, Charlotte! Onions! They are socially impossible! Where on earth can we go calling after onion soup?”
“I can’t help it. At least they are not out of season, or ridiculously expensive. You can afford to have a craving for fresh apricots or pheasant under glass if you wish, but I cannot.”
Emily’s face tightened. “Who is Mina Spencer-Brown? And what has she to do with Mama? Charlotte, if you have got me here simply because you want to meddle in one of Thomas’ cases”—she took a deep breath and pulled a face—“I would love to have an excuse to interfere! Murder is much more exciting than Society, even if it terrifies me sick at times and makes me weep because the solution is always so wretchedly sad.” She clenched her fist on the table. “I do think you might have told me the truth, instead of a pack of silly stories about Mama. I put off a really rather good luncheon to come here. And you offer me boiled onion soup!”
Memories flickered through Charlotte’s mind for a moment: the terrible corpse in the closed garden in Callander Square; and standing side by side with Emily, paralyzed with fright, when Paul Alaric found them at the end of the murders in Paragon Walk. Then she remembered the present again, and all the tingle and beating of the blood vanished.
“It is to do with Mama,” she said soberly. She served the soup and bread and sat down. “It will need salting. I forgot. Do you recall Monsieur Alaric?”
“Don’t be a fool!” Emily said with raised eyebrows. She reached for the salt and sprinkled a little. “How could I possibly forget him—even if he were not still my neighbor? He is one of the most charming men I have ever met. He can converse upon almost any subject as if he were interested. Why on earth does Society consider it fashionable to affect to be bored? It is really very tedious.” She smiled. “You know, I never really knew if he was aware quite how fascinated we all were by him, did you? How much do you think it was merely the challenge of his being a mystery, and that each of us wished to outdo the other by winning his attentions?”
“Only partly.” Charlotte had him so clearly in her mind even now, here in her own kitchen, it had to be something more than that. “He was able to laugh at us and yet at the same time make us believe that he liked us.”
“Indeed?” Emily’s eyes widened and her delicate nose flared a little. “I find that a most infuriating mixture. And I am perfectly sure that Selena at least desired of him a great deal more than simply to be ‘liked’! Friendship does not arouse that kind of excitement and discomfort in anyone!”
“He has become acquainted with Mama.” Charlotte hoped for a considerable reaction from Emily. She was disappointed: Emily was not interested.
“This soup is really rather nice with salt in it,” she remarked with surprise. “But I shall have to sit at the far side of the room and shout at everyone. You might have thought of that! What if Mama has met Monsieur Alaric? Society is very small.”
“Mama carries a picture of him in her locket.”
That had the desired effect. Emily dropped her spoon and stared, appalled.
“What did you say? I don’t believe it! She couldn’t be so—so idiotic!”
“She was.”
Emily shut her eyes in relief. “But she stopped!”
“No. The locket was lost—probably stolen. A lot of small things have been stolen from around Rutland Place—a silver buttonhook, a gold chain, a snuffbox.”
“But that’s awful!” Emily’s eyes were wide and dark with anguish. “Charlotte, it’s, simply dreadful! I know the servant problem is bad, but this is preposterous. One owes it to one’s friends to see at least that they are honest. What if someone finds this locket? And knows it is Mama’s with that—Frenchman—in it! What would they say? What would Papa think?”
“Exactly,” Charlotte said. “And now Mina Spencer-Brown is dead—probably murdered—almost next door to Mama. But she still doesn’t mean to stop seeing him. I’ve tried to dissuade her, and it has been exactly as if she had not heard me.”
