“I don’t know how I can help you, Mr. Pitt,” she said gravely. She was dressed in deep forest green, which heightened her slightly ethereal quality. She was pale, her eyes shadowed as if she had slept badly, and she remained standing some distance from him, not facing him but staring at a gold-framed seascape on the wall. “I see no purpose in going over and over the tragedies of the past. Nothing will bring my husband back, and we don’t care about the silver or the book. We would much prefer not to be constantly reminded of it.”
He hated what he was doing, but he knew of no other way. If he had pressed harder and been cleverer, if he had solved it the first time, Dulcie would still be alive.
“I’m here about Dulcie Mabbutt, Mrs. York.”
She turned quickly. “Dulcie?”
“Yes. While she was in this house she saw something of great importance. How did she die, Mrs. York?”
Her gaze did not waver, and she was so pale anyway he could detect no change in her aside from the distress he would have seen in almost anyone. “She leaned too far out of a window and lost her balance,” she replied.
“Did you see it happen?”
“No—it was in the evening, after dark. Perhaps in the daylight—perhaps she would have seen what she was doing and it would not have happened.”
“Why should she lean so far out of a window?”
“I don’t know! Maybe she saw something, someone.”
“In the dark?”
She bit her lip. “Perhaps she dropped something.”
Pitt did not pursue it; the unlikeliness was obvious enough. “Who was in the house that evening, Mrs. York?”
“All the servants, of course; my parents-in-law, and dinner guests—perhaps Dulcie was talking to one of the footmen or coachmen of the guests.”
“Then they would have raised the alarm when she fell.”
“Oh.” She turned away, blushing at her foolishness. “Of course.”
“Who were your guests?” He knew the answer before she spoke.
“Mr. and Mrs. Asherson, Mr. Garrard Danver and Mr. Julian Danver and the Misses Danver, Sir Reginald and Lady Arbuthnott, and Mr. and Mrs. Gerald Adair.”
“Did any of the other ladies or you yourself wear a gown of a brilliant cerise or magenta color, ma’am?”
“What?” Her voice was barely a whisper, and this time her face was so ashen the skin looked like wax.
“A brilliant cerise or magenta,” he repeated. “It is a bluish pink, the sort of color cinerarias grow.”
She gulped and her lips formed the word
“Dulcie saw a woman in such a dress, Mrs. York, upstairs in this house—” Before he could finish she gasped and pitched forward onto the floor, hands out to save herself, knocking into the chair as she went.
He dived forward too late to catch her, and half falling over the chair himself, knelt down beside her. She was completely unconscious, her face ivory in the gaslight. He uncrumpled her limbs and picked her up. It was awkward, because she was a deadweight, but she was so slender there was hardly any substance to her. He laid her on the sofa, arranged her skirts to cover all but her feet, then rang the bell, almost yanking the cord from the wall.
As soon as the footman appeared Pitt ordered him to get the lady’s maid with some smelling salts. His voice sounded rough, even frightened. He must steady himself. There was a violence of emotion inside him; he feared he had been too clumsy and had provoked the very scandal Ballarat would pay any price to avoid, anger at the loss of life, pity for it, a sense of betrayal because he had not wanted it to be Veronica. But surely the gay and daring Cerise would not have crumpled into a faint at the first suspicion of the law.
The door opened and the lady’s maid came in, a pretty, slight creature with fair hair and—
“God Almighty!” The breath hissed out between his teeth and Pitt felt the room lurch a little round him also. “Emily!”
“Oh!” Her hand flew to her mouth and she dropped the bottle of salts. “Thomas.”
“All right!” For a moment there was a silence of utter incredulity. Then his fury broke. “Explain yourself!” he ground out between his teeth.
“Don’t be foolish!” she whispered. “Keep your voice down! What happened to Veronica?” She knelt down, picked up the salts, and unstoppered them, waving them gently under Veronica’s nose.
“She fainted, of course!” Pitt snapped back. “I asked her about Cerise. Emily, you’ve got to get out of here. You must be mad! Dulcie was murdered, and you could be next!”
“I know she was—and I’m not leaving.” Her face was determined as she stared at him defiantly.
“You are!” He grasped her arm.
She snatched it away. “No, I’m not! Veronica isn’t Cerise. I know her far better than you do!”
“Emily—” But it was too late; Veronica was beginning to stir. Her eyes opened, dark with horror. Then, as memory came back and she recognized Pitt and Emily, the mask returned.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Pitt,” she said very slowly. “I’m afraid I am not very well. I—I haven’t seen the person you spoke of. I cannot help.”
“Then I’ll not disturb you any further. I’ll leave you with your—maid.” Pitt forced himself to be civil, even gentle. “I apologize for having disturbed you.”
