“Oh no!” Fanny’s shock was genuine and profound. “Not Dulcie! You mean a—a follower? Never! Not ’er, she weren’t...” Her little face set in practical lines. “Any’ow, if’n yer was going to ’ave a follower in the ’ouse, yer wouldn’t ’ave the poor soul climb up no drainpipe to an attic winder; yer’d creep down an’ let ’im in the scullery door, wouldn’t yer? She weren’t daft! But she weren’t loose neither.” She finished the last of the cocoa and looked at Emily over the rim of her cup, then automatically pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Know what I reckon, Amelia?”
Emily was agog, leaning forward to urge her on. “What?”
Fanny’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “I reckon as she saw summink the night Mr. Robert were murdered, and someone came back an’ murdered ’er, in case she told that rozzer as was ’ere askin’!”
Emily breathed out in a careful sigh of amazement. “Oh Fanny! You could be right! You think there was a break-in?”
Fanny shook her head vigorously. “No, there weren’t—we’d ’a known. Mr. Redditch is most partic’lar, ’specially after there were that terrible robbery when Mr. Robert were murdered. All the doors and winders is looked ter special every night afore ’e goes ter bed ’isself. ’Im or Albert goes over every one.”
“Well, could anyone have got in before that?” Emily asked eagerly.
“Nah!” Fanny smiled at her innocence. “ ’Ow? There’s only the front door, an’ yer can’t come in that ’less someone opens it for yer; and the back door’d mean ’e ’ad ter come through the kitchen, and there’s always people there, Cook or Mary at least, an’ on a night wiv guests, near all of us.”
“Who were the guests that night? Do you know?”
“The two Danver gentlemen and the ladies, Miss ’arriet and the old Miss Danver, an’ Mr. and Mrs. Asherson. ’E’s ever so ’andsome, Mr. Asherson, in a sort o’ broodin’ way. I know Nora’s always on about ’im. I reckon as she’s got a fancy for ’im rotten!” She sniffed, unconsciously imitating the housekeeper’s tone. “Silly little article! What’d she get out of it, ’ceptin’ misery?”
“Then it must have been someone already in the house,” Emily whispered back, entirely forgetting her accent, but Fanny appeared not to notice. “Or someone in the house let in another person?”
“Like ’oo?” Fanny was indignant. “In’t none of us servants ’d do that! Anyway, we weren’t none of us ’ere when Mr. Robert were killed, ’ceptin’ Mary an’ Dulcie ’erself. An’ Mary’s in the kitchen and nobody came through that way or we’d all ’a seen ’em. Come ter that, Albert was on in the ’all.”
“So it was someone here,” Emily agreed. “The only other possibility is that Dulcie crept down during the night and let someone in herself—or Mary did, I suppose.” She added that only in the interests of strict logic; she did not believe for a moment that either girl had done such a thing. She had the information she wanted: it had happened after dinner and could have been before the guests left, but there had definitely been no break-in. “Fanny, I think you’re right!” She leaned forward, gripping Fanny’s thin arm. “You’d better say nothing to anyone at all—in case you fall out of a window as well! Promise me.”
Fanny shook her head, eyes grave. “I won’t! Oh, believe the, I won’t. I don’t want ter end up squashed on the pavement like ’er, poor thing. An’ you better keep a still tongue too.”
“I swear!” Emily said with conviction. “And I’ll put a chair against my door.”
“You better ’ad,” Fanny agreed. “Me too!” She uncurled her legs and slid to the floor, hugging her nightgown round her, shivering now the cocoa was finished. “G’night, ’melia.”
But even with the chair wedged under the handle Emily did not sleep easily. Several times she woke with a start, uncertain if she had heard footsteps in the passage outside, and whether they had stopped outside her door. Could someone have tried the handle? The wind rattled the loose sash frame, and she froze in terror, waiting till the sound came again and she could be certain what it was. Suspicions churned in her mind, slipping in and out of dreams.
With daylight courage returned, but she was still nervous; it took all her concentration not to make any mistakes. As she went from one pedestrian duty to the next, she was always aware of other people, of movement, shadows. By evening she was so tired she could have wept with exhaustion. She felt imprisoned in the house, hurried from one place to another with never any time to be alone, yet carrying her loneliness like a weight inside. And always time was the enemy. In a way it was a blessing to have work to occupy her.
Charlotte could only imagine what might be happening to Emily after they parted in the rain at the park gates. It was useless to think about it; she could do nothing. And she must keep lying to Pitt or he would know she was working to find the truth—and then he was certain to realize that she was doing so because Ballarat was doing nothing—no one would do anything. The loneliness of having to lie to him was one of the worse pains she had ever known. The luxury of hiding nothing, carrying no knowledge alone, was something she was so used to she had forgotten its value. Now it would only be selfishness, and she did not even consider it. Nevertheless, the hurt caught her by surprise.
But there were small kindnesses, friendships where she had not thought to find them. A strange little man in a coster’s coat and cap brought her a bag of herrings and refused to be paid, hurrying away into the rain without looking back, as though embarrassed to be thanked. One morning she found a bundle of kindling sticks on the back step, and two days later there was another bundle. She never saw who left them. The greengrocer became curt to the point of outright rudeness, but the coal merchant continued to deliver, and she thought his sacks were if anything a little fuller.
Caroline did not come back, but she wrote every day saying that Daniel and Jemima were well and offering to do anything she could to help.
The letter that touched her most came from Great-aunt Vespasia, who was ill with bronchitis and confined to her bed. She had no doubt whatsoever that Pitt was innocent, and as soon as the time was appropriate, if it should come to such a ridiculous pass, she would instruct her lawyer to act on his behalf. She also enclosed ten guineas, for which she hoped Charlotte would not be silly enough to take offense. One could not fight on an empty stomach —and quite obviously a fight was on hand.
The writing was shaky and a little crooked on the page, and Charlotte was struck with cold shock as she realized that Aunt Vespasia was old and frailty was catching up with her.
She stood in the kitchen in the early morning holding the blue deckled paper in her hand. It seemed as if all the good and certain things in the world were fading fast; there was a chill so close to the skin no fires could dispel it.
She went to visit Pitt again, waiting in the shivering rain with other quiet, sad-faced women whose fathers,
