read over her shoulder. The black cat stretched luxuriously, kneading its claws in the arm of the chair, pulling the threads, then curled up in a ball again and went back to sleep with a small sigh.
'May we keep these?' Emily asked. 'I want to learn them by heart.
'Of course,' he said. He poured the chocolate and passed it to them, his wry face showing he was not unaware of the irony of the situation: sitting by the blazing fire in this infinitely comfortable room, with its superb Dutch scene on the wall and hot chocolate in their hands, while they talked about horrendous squalor.
As if reading Charlotte's thoughts, Carlisle turned to her.
'You must use your chance to convince as many other people as possible. The only way we'll change anything is to alter the social climate till child prostitution becomes so abhorred that it withers of itself. Of course we'll never get rid of it alto-
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gether, any more than any other vice, but we might reduce it massively.'
'We will!' Emily said with a deeper anger than Charlotte had heard in her before. 'I'll see that every society woman in London is so sickened by it she'll make it impossible for any man with ambition to practice it. We may not have a vote or pass any laws in Parliament, but we can certainly make the laws of society and freeze to death anyone who wants to flout them for long, I promise you!'
Carlisle smiled. 'I'm sure,' he said. 'I never underestimated the power of public disapproval, informed or uninformed.'
Emily stood up, carefully depositing the cat in the round hollow she had left. It barely stirred to rearrange itself.
'I intend to inform the public.' She folded the papers and slipped them into her embroidered reticule. 'Now we shall go to Deptford and look at this corpse. Are you ready, Charlotte? Thank you so much, Mr. Carlisle.'
The Deptford police station was not easy to find. Quite naturally, neither Emily's footman nor her coachman was acquainted with the area, and it took several wrong turnings on seemingly identical corners before they drew up in front of the entrance.
Inside was the potbellied stove, and the same constable sat at the desk writing up a report, an enamel mug of tea steaming at his elbow. He looked startled when he saw Emily in her green mom-ing dress and feathered hat, and although he knew Pitt, he did not know Charlotte. For a moment he was at a loss for words.
'Good morning, Constable,' Emily said cheerfully.
He snapped to attention, slid off his seat, and stood up. That at least had to be correct; one did not sit on one's behind to speak with ladies of quality.
'Good morning, ma'am.' His eye took in Charlotte. 'Ma'am. Are you lost, ladies? Can I 'elp you?'
'No, thank you, we are not lost,' Emily replied briskly, with a smile so dazzling the constable was completely disconcerted again. 'I am Lady Ashworth, and this is my sister Mrs. Pitt. I believe you know Inspector Pitt? Good, of course you do. Perhaps you did not know there is a great desire for reform
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at the moment, especially with regard to the abuse of children in the trade of prostitution.'
The constable blanched at a lady using so vulgar a term, and was embarrassed by it, although he frequently heard far coarser expressions used by others.
But she did not give him time to protest, or even to cogitate upon it.
'A great desire,' she continued. 'And for this, of course, a certain amount of correct information is required. I know that a young boy prostitute was pulled out of the river here yesterday. I should like to see him.'
Every vestige of color drained out of his face.
