believe it is. And the home secretary.” She looked round the table at them. “I apologize for such an—an unfortunate dinner party, but you see, Thomas Pitt is a friend of mine. I cannot sit by and see him hanged for a murder he did not commit. Please excuse me.” Head high, back like a ramrod, she swept out of the room to exert all her influence, to call on old friendships and have Pitt released, now, tonight.
In the silence behind her no one moved.
But it was not over. There was still Cerise, the real Cerise. And who had murdered Robert York, and why? Had that also been Loretta? Charlotte believed not.
On shaking legs she rose too. “Ladies, I think we should retire. I cannot imagine anyone feels like eating anymore. I certainly don’t.”
Obediently they pushed back their chairs and straggled through to the withdrawing room. Adeline and Harriet went together, leaning a little on each other, as though physical proximity could give them strength. Sonia Asherson hugged her hurt to herself, tight-lipped.
Lastly Charlotte followed at Veronica’s elbow. In the hallway she drew her aside into the library. Veronica looked round, startled, as though the book-lined shelves unnerved her.
Charlotte stood against the door, blocking it.
“There’s still Cerise,” she said quietly. “The real Cerise. The woman Garrard loved. That’s you, isn’t it!”
“Me?” Veronica’s eyes widened. “Me! Oh God! How wrong you are! But why? Why do you care? Why have you done all this? Who are you?”
“Charlotte Pitt.”
“Charlotte—Pitt? You mean—you mean that policeman is your—”
“My husband. And I’m not going to let him hang for murdering that woman.”
“He won’t,” Veronica said harshly. “Loretta did it. We all heard her say so. You don’t have to worry.”
“It isn’t finished.” Charlotte turned the key in the lock. “There’s still the real Cerise, and whoever murdered your husband. I don’t think that was Loretta. I think it was you— and Loretta knew it. She protected you because of her own blackmailing of Garrard, even though you killed her son. That’s why you hated each other, and yet neither of you could afford to betray the other!”
“How—I ...” Veronica shook her head slowly, incredulous.
“There’s no purpose in denying it.” Charlotte could not afford pity now. This was Cerise; she might not be a spy after all, but she was a ruthless, passionate woman, and a murderess. “Was it to marry Julian? Did you get tired of Robert and murder him, so you could marry Julian?”
“No!” Veronica was so ashen Charlotte was half afraid she was going to faint. And yet she was Cerise—Cerise with the flair, the panache, the courage.
“I’m sorry, but I cannot believe you.”
“I am not Cerise!” Veronica put her hands over her face and turned away, crumpling in a heap onto the sofa. “Oh God! I suppose I’d better tell you the truth. It isn’t what you think at all!”
Charlotte sat carefully on the edge of a chair, waiting.
“I loved Robert. You’ll never believe how much, not now. But when we were married, I thought I had everything a woman could want. He was—he was so handsome, so charming and sensitive. He seemed to understand me. He was a companion, more than any other man I’d ever known. I—I loved him so much.” She closed her eyes, but the tears seeped through, and she gulped.
In spite of herself Charlotte was filled with pity. She knew what it was to love so much your whole world was filled with it. She, too, had suffered loneliness.
“Go on,” she said softly. “What about Cerise?”
Veronica made an intense effort, her body shaking, her voice husky as if the words cut her.
“Robert grew—cool towards me. I—” She swallowed and her voice sank to a whisper. “He became— uninterested in the—the marriage bed. At first I thought it was me, that I didn’t please him. I did everything I could, but nothing ...” She took a moment to control herself, then struggled on. “It was then I began to think there might be someone else.” She stopped, the pain of memory too strong for her.
Charlotte waited. Instinct made her want to rush forward, put her arms round Veronica and hold her, enfold the pain and ease it, touch her so she was not alone. But she knew she must not, not yet.
At last Veronica mastered herself. “I thought there must be another woman. I found a kerchief in the library. It was a bright cerise color, vivid, vibrant. I knew it wasn’t mine, or Loretta’s. Then a week later I found a ribbon, then a silk rose—all that dreadful color. Robert spent a lot of time away from home; I thought it had to do with his career. I could accept that; we all have to. Women, I mean.”
“You found her?” Charlotte said very quietly.
Veronica drew a deep breath and let it out with a shuddering sigh.
“Yes, I—I saw her, very briefly—right here in my own home. Just the back of her as she left through the front door. She was so—so graceful! I saw her a second time, at a theater I shouldn’t have been at. I only saw her at a distance across the balcony. When I got there she was gone.” She stopped again.
Charlotte believed the story in spite of herself; the wound was too real to be painted. The memory still hurt Veronica with a raw and twisting pain.
“Go on,” Charlotte prompted, this time more gently. “Did you find her?”
“I found one of her stockings.” Veronica’s voice was thick with the agony of reliving it. “In Robert’s bedroom. It was so ... I wept all that night. I thought I should never feel worse in my life.” She gave a little choking sound, half laugh, half sob. “That’s what I thought then! Until the night I knew Cerise was in the house. Something woke me. It was after midnight and I heard a footstep on the landing. I got up and saw her come out of Robert’s bedroom and go downstairs. I followed her. She must have heard me and slipped into the library. I—” She stopped again; her
