“What is it?” Another time she might have waited, but not tonight. “What happened, Thomas?”
“Tormod is dead.” He took his coat off and let it fall onto the sofa. “He died this morning.”
She did not bother to pick it up.
“Oh.” She looked at his face, trying to match the news to the pain in him. She knew it was not enough. “What else?”
He smiled, and there was a sudden sweetness in it. He put out his hand and took hers.
She clung onto it hard. “What else?” she repeated.
“Amaryllis Denbigh came to the police station and told me it was Eloise who killed Mina. She said she had guessed it a long while ago but had said nothing, to protect Tormod. Now that he was dead, she didn’t care anymore.”
“Do you believe her?” she asked carefully. Her own mind wanted to reject the idea, but she knew that murder did not always lie where it was easy to understand, or to hate. Sometimes there is darkness underneath what seems to be light.
“I went to look.” He sighed and sat down, pulling her down next to him. “I found evidence. I don’t know whether it would stand in court—it might. But it doesn’t matter, because all I could say is that it was someone in that house, and the butler swears it must have been Tormod. He’ll stick to that—but whether it’s the truth or to protect Eloise, I don’t know. I probably never will.”
“Why should Eloise kill Mina?” she asked.
“Jealousy. She was intensely possessive of Tormod.”
“Then she would have killed Amaryllis. Amaryllis was the one he could have married,” she argued. “He wouldn’t have married Mina—she was no danger. She could never have been anything more than a mistress, and I doubt she was even that!”
“That’s what Bevan said—”
“The butler?”
“Yes.”
“Amaryllis is the possessive one.” Charlotte was thinking, turning ideas over in her mind, memories. “She hates Eloise enough to come to you and tell a lie like that. Even with Tormod dead, she still hates.”
“Well, don’t worry, I shan’t arrest Eloise.” He tightened his arm around her. “I haven’t any proof.”
She pulled away and looked straight at him. “What do you believe?”
He thought about it for a moment, his eyes on her as if he would explore her thought also.
“I think it was Tormod,” he answered at last. “I think Mina was being troublesome, pestering him, and he wanted to marry Amaryllis—for her money, among other things—and he killed Mina to keep her quiet. Perhaps she was threatening him.”
Charlotte sat back slowly, thinking. Poor Amaryllis had been so infatuated with Tormod that it had destroyed the gentleness in her, all the power of friendship, and had left no room for other loves or even decencies. Now she and Eloise could not even comfort each other.
“Strange what obsession can do,” she said aloud. “It’s very frightening. It seems to devour everything else. All your other values get eaten up.” She thought of Caroline and Paul Alaric, but she did not want to say it aloud. Better it was forgotten, even by Pitt, especially now that Edward showed signs of reforming. Last evening he had escorted Caroline to the Savoy Theatre to see the
Had Paul Alaric ever glimpsed the power he possessed to arouse women’s emotions? He had the kind of face that suggested great currents of passion underneath—a suggestion built upon all too easily by romantic women needing mystery, escaping from familiar men they believed they read without effort. Whether he had ever felt such great tides of passion himself, she could not know, but in that last moment when she and Caroline had left him staring at them helplessly, the shock of their passing had been like a wound in his face. For that alone she would always think well of him.
Tormod had awoken an even wilder hunger in Amaryllis. Something about him, some quality of body or mind, had enraptured her till she could think of nothing and no one else. He must have had an overwhelming charm, a magnetism that obliterated all other judgment.
And naturally Eloise had loved him; they had spent all their lives together. No wonder Amaryllis was jealous, excluded from all those years—
Suddenly an appalling thought flashed across her mind, so ugly she could not even name it, and yet the breath of it left her body cold.
“What’s the matter?” Pitt asked. “You’re shivering!”
The thought had been so hideous she was not prepared to give it words, even to him. Now that it had come to her, she would have to talk to Eloise and see if it was true, but not tonight—and perhaps she would not tell Pitt?
“Just glad it’s over,” she answered, and moved closer to him. She took his hand again and held it. The lie did not bother her. After all, it was only an idea.
In the morning she dressed in her darkest clothes and caught the omnibus. She got off at the nearest stop to Rutland Place and walked the rest of the way. She did not call on Caroline; in fact, if she was not seen, she did not mean to mention her visit at all.
The footman opened the door.
“Good morning, Mrs. Pitt,” he said in a hushed voice, stepping back to allow her in.
“Good morning,” she replied gravely. “I have called to express my sympathies. Is Miss Lagarde well enough to receive me?”
