detective”—he looked up at her through his lashes—“you would do more good exercising your judgment on Jack Radley than speculating about Mrs. York.”
She gave him no argument. What he said was undoubtedly true, and although he phrased it gently, it was something in the nature of a command. Beneath his comfortable sprawl and his light manner, Pitt was worried.
However, Charlotte had every intention of combining the two. She could think of no more effective way of seeing enough of Emily to be able to exercise her judgment, as Thomas had said, than to encourage her to play detective in another case. At Christmas, any discussion or judgment would be next to impossible, but later, if Charlotte were to visit Emily at her home, where she might meet Jack Radley herself, she might be in a position to form a more valid opinion of him without being obvious about it.
She was ready, her plan prepared, when Emily called the following morning, a little after eleven. She came straight into the kitchen in a whirl of black barathea trimmed with black fox fur up to her chin, her fair hair coiled under a sweeping black hat. For a moment Charlotte was envious; the expensive coat looked so indescribably elegant. Then she remembered the reason her sister wore black and was instantly ashamed. Emily looked pale, apart from the spots of color stung into her cheeks by the ice on the wind, and there were gray smudges under her eyes where the skin looked bruised and papery. Charlotte did not need to be told her sister was restless and sleeping too little. Boredom is not by any means the worst of afflictions, but it carries its own kind of debilitation. Christmas would be all too brief, and what would Emily do after that?
“Have a cup of tea,” Charlotte offered, turning to the big kitchen range without waiting for an answer. “Have you ever been to Hanover Close?”
Emily took off her coat and sat at the kitchen table, resting her elbows on its scrubbed wood. Her dress beneath the coat was equally elegant, although there were places where she did not fill it out as she used to.
“No, but I know where it is. Why?” The answering inquiry was merely polite.
Charlotte plunged in at the deepest point. “There has been a murder there.”
“In Hanover Close?” This time she had Emily’s full attention. “Good heavens. That’s terribly exclusive. The best possible taste—and money. Who is dead?”
“Robert York. He used to work at the Foreign Office— until he died, I mean.”
“How was he killed? I didn’t read of it.” Normally a lady of Emily’s position would not have read a newspaper at all, apart from perhaps the society pages and the Court Circular. But unlike their papa, George had been very lenient where such things were concerned—as long as she did not offend people by discussing them. And, of course, since his death she did as she pleased.
Charlotte poured the water from the kettle into the teapot, then placed it on the table with a cream jug and two of her best cups. “It happened three years ago,” she said as carelessly as she could. “Thomas has just been asked to reopen the case, because the widow is to marry again, to someone else in the Foreign Office.”
Emily perked up. “Is she betrothed yet? I haven’t seen news of that either, and I always read the society pages. That is about the only way I get to hear anything. No one tells me anything anymore; it’s as if the whole subject of relationships between men and women were something I should not be reminded of.” Unconsciously her fist clenched.
Charlotte noticed it. “That is the point!” she said quickly. “Thomas has been asked to investigate, to see if she is a suitable person to marry someone as important as Mr. Danver will become, when he is promoted.”
“Might she not be?” Emily asked. “Please do pour the tea, I’m as dry as the Sahara, and it’s had plenty of time to brew. Has she a reputation? I wish I could hear more. I’m so cut off it’s as if I were a leper! Half the people I used to know are embarrassed to see me, and the other half spend their time sitting around solemnly and talking in whispers, as if I were dying myself.” She sniffed fiercely, searching in her reticule for a handkerchief. It was not self-pity so much as the sudden warmth of the kitchen after the cold air in the carriage which provoked the necessity.
Charlotte shook her head. “No, that’s as much as I have learned, but the crime itself is very unexplained.” She poured the tea and pushed Emily’s cup across towards her, along with a piece of fresh ginger cake, which was taken readily. “It is rather odd.” And she told Emily all that Pitt had told her.
“Very odd,” Emily agreed at last. “I wonder if she had a lover, and there was a quarrel. I suppose that is really what the Foreign Office wants Thomas to discover, but they are afraid to say so, in case it should get back to Mr. Danver, who would be furious. And of course, it would prejudice him terribly; he would never have any peace of mind at such a slur.”
“Neither would she!” Charlotte said hotly. “If it is untrue, it could be the most appalling injustice. But I don’t know how Thomas will be able to make any inquiries. It is hardly the thing a policeman can ask of her social acquaintances.”
Emily smiled. “My dear Charlotte, you don’t need to labor the point so hard. You are being singularly unsubtle, even for you! Of course we will find out. We have done nothing but bake cakes and stitch seams for six months, and I am ready to scream with it. We shall prove Veronica York’s impeccable reputation, or ruin it entirely. Where shall we begin?”
Charlotte had already anticipated the difficulties. Emily could no longer move in Society as she had when George was alive; and Charlotte, as the wife of a policeman, had not the money to dress appropriately, nor the friends upon whom to call. There was only George’s great-aunt Vespasia, who would understand and assist, but she was over eighty, and since George’s death had taken a less active part in affairs than before. She was devoted to a number of causes, and believed that the battle against poverty and injustice could be tackled through reform of the law. She was currently engaged in a struggle to improve the working conditions in factories which employed children, especially those under the age of ten.
Charlotte poured more tea into her cup and sipped it. “Are you still in acquaintance with Jack Radley?” She asked, trying to sound casual, as if the question were entirely to do with the problem of Veronica York.
Emily reached for the ginger cake again. “He calls upon me from time to time. Do you think he might involve himself?” She cut a large slice of the cake and bit into it hungrily.
“Perhaps he might help us to—to arrange a meeting,” Charlotte suggested.
“Not us.” Emily made a face. “You.” She poured herself more tea, spilling it. At this she swore, using a word she had heard George use in the stables. Charlotte knew her reaction had nothing to do with the mess in the saucer; she was frustrated by the imprisonment of mourning, and above all the loneliness.
