“Yes, most definitely, please. Thank you.” And she turned round and hurried away towards the nearest omnibus stop. The new idea spun crazily in her mind. There must be something better, something saner and more intelligent—but what? There was no time to wait. There was no one left to question, no physical evidence to produce like a rabbit out of a hat, to force a confession. The only thing was to startle someone violently, forcing a betrayal—and she could think of no other way than the wild idea forming in her mind now.
She did not go home but to Jack Radley’s rooms in St. James’s. She had never been there before, but knew the address from writing to him. Normally he spent as little time there as possible, preferring to be someone’s guest in one of the fine town houses. It was both more pleasant and easier on his frugal finances. But he had promised he would be available as long as this crisis lasted, and she did not hesitate to call upon him.
The building was a good second best, and not an address one would be embarrassed to mention. She asked the porter in the hall and was told courteously, with only the slightest frown, that Mr. Radley’s rooms were on the third floor, and the stairs were to her left.
Her legs were tired when she got there, and there was no view to reward her effort, since his rooms were at the back. She knocked sharply on the door. If he was not there she would have to leave a note. She shifted from one foot to the other impatiently in the few minutes till the door opened—in fact she had been on the point of rattling the handle.
“Charlotte!” Jack looked startled, caught out; then self-concern vanished and he welcomed her in. “What is it? Has something happened?”
She had little time to look round. A few weeks ago she would have been consumed with curiosity—a person’s home said much about them—but now she had neither the time nor the need. Doubts of Jack had died without her noticing. She observed only that the rooms were elegantly furnished but small, and she had economized enough herself to recognize it in others.
“Well?” he demanded.
“I have just met the constable who is investigating Cerise’s death.”
His face darkened. “What do you mean, ‘just met’?”
“I found him.” She brushed the means and the circumstances aside. “Coming out of Half Moon Street. But the important thing is, he described the body. Jack, I’m sure it isn’t her. It was made to look like her, but it was just some poor woman in a pink dress—”
“Just a minute! Why?”
“Because of her hands, but even more her knees.”
His face was incredulous; he looked almost as if he might burst out laughing.
“Calluses,” she exclaimed peremptorily. “From scrubbing floors. But Jack, what it means is that the real Cerise is still alive! And I have an idea. I know it is extreme, even idiotic—but I’ve racked my brains and I can’t think of anything else at all. I need your help. We must go again to the Yorks’, and the Danvers must be there, too, and as soon as possible. Time is getting terribly short.”
Every vestige of humor left Jack’s face. No trial date had been set yet, but it would not be long and he had never pretended to her that it might. Now he listened with total gravity. “What else?” he asked.
“I must know at least two days in advance, so I can make arrangements.”
“What arrangements?”
She hesitated, uncertain whether to tell him. He was likely to disapprove.
“Don’t be stupid!” he said abruptly. “How can I help you if I don’t know what you’re doing? You aren’t the only one with brains, nor the only one who cares.”
She felt for an instant as if he had slapped her. She was about to retort, when the truth of it overwhelmed her. It was surprisingly painless, in fact. All at once she felt less alone than she had since Pitt’s arrest.
“The Danvers come to dinner regularly—next time I’m going to dress up as Cerise and make an assignation with each of the men it might have been,” she said frankly. “Only Piers York, the Danvers, and Felix Asherson were there the night Dulcie was killed. I’ll start with the Danvers, because Aunt Adeline saw Cerise at their house.”
Jack was startled. He hesitated for a long, tense moment, struggling for a better idea himself. When nothing came, he conceded doubtfully. “You don’t look much like her—that is, like the descriptions of her,” he said at last.
“I’ll meet them in the conservatory,” she reasoned. “The light’s very poor in there, and I’ll have the right color dress, and a black wig. If I can pass for long enough to get a reaction it might be enough.” The plan sounded desperate as she described it, a very slim chance, and she felt her hopes, thin as wraiths, drain from her grasp. “If he even knows me, it will prove something!”
He felt her panic and put his hand on her arm gently. “It might be dangerous,” he warned.
Danger would be marvelous; it had the kick and the fire of hot wine, and seemed very close to outright victory. No one would turn up unless he knew Cerise, and if anyone threatened her with violence it could only be because she was too close to the truth.
“I know,” she said with a surge of excitement. “But you’ll be there, and Emily. I need Emily’s help. I’ve worked it all out: I’ll take the dress and wig in a bag and give them to Emily, beforehand; then when we are there after dinner I shall pretend to be faint and excuse myself. Emily will ‘look after’ me, so I can slip up to her room and change. Then she’ll watch and tell me when to go down to the conservatory, she said the Yorks have a large one, to keep my trysts.”
“You’re leaving a lot to chance,” he said anxiously.
“Can you think of anything better?”
He hesitated for a moment. “No,” he admitted. “I’ll do everything I can to keep all the others occupied in the withdrawing room. I’ll make some riveting conversation.” He smiled bleakly. “For heaven’s sake, promise me if there is the slightest danger you’ll scream. I mean it, Charlotte.”
“I promise.” She giggled a little wildly. “Although it would be awfully difficult to explain, wouldn’t it? What on earth should I say I was doing in their conservatory dressed in a hideous gown and a black wig, screaming my head
