that were perfectly predictable to anyone with eyes to see! And who cares about other people's love affairs anyway? They only do it because they can't think of anything more interesting. No one really minds-I mean no one feels anything scorching! It's all a very silly game-Charlotte!' She banged her cup down with a porcelain tinkle, lucky not to chip it. 'For goodness' sake, what's wrong?'
Charlotte recalled herself. Butterflies lived only a day or two anyway.
'Murder,' she said bluntly.
Emily was immediately sober, sitting perfectly upright.
'Tea?' she invited, then reached for the silver bell on the table. 'Who has been murdered? Anyone we know?'
The maid appeared instantly. She had obviously been on the other side of the door waiting. Emily gave her a sour look.
'Bring fresh tea, please, Gwenneth, and toast for Mrs. Eitt.'
'Yes, ma'am.'
'I don't need toast,' Charlotte replied, thinking of getting into the butterfly silks.
'Have it anyway-off you go, Gwenneth-we don't want it at lunchtime!' Emily waited until the door was closed. 'Who's been murdered?' she repeated. 'And how? And why?'
'A boy called Arthur Waybourne,' Charlotte answered quite bluntly. 'He was drowned in the bath-and I'm not sure why-exactly.'
Emily screwed up her face impatiently.
'What do you mean 'exactly'? Do you mean 'approximately,' then? You aren't making a lot of sense, Charlotte. Who would want to kill a child? He's not. an unknown baby that might embarrass someone, because you just told me his name.'
'He was not a baby at all. He was sixteen.'
'Sixteen! Are you trying to be irritating, Charlotte? He 174
probably drowned quite accidentally. Does Thomas think it was murder, or are you just doing this by yourself?' Emily sat back, a shadow of disappointment in her eyes.
The whole dark,, miserable story was suddenly very real again.
'It's very unlikely he drowned by accident,' Charlotte replied, looking across the table spread with fine bone china, fruit preserves in jars, and a scatter of crumbs. 'And he certainly did not put his own body down a manhole into the sewers!'
Emily caught her breath and choked.
'Down the sewers!' she cried, coughing and banging her chest. 'Did you say sewers?'
'Quite. He also had been homosexually abused, and had caught a most unpleasant disease.'
'How disgusting!' Emily took a deep breath and a sip of lukewarm tea. 'What sort of a person was he? I presume-he came from the city somewhere, one of those areas-'
'On the contrary,' Charlotte interrupted. 'He was the eldest son of a gentleman of-'
At that point, the door opened and the parlormaid came in with fresh tea and a rack of toast. There was utter silence while she set them on the table, paused for a moment or two in case the conversation continued, then met Emily's frozen glance and left with a swing of skirts.
'What?' Emily demanded. 'What did you say?'
'He was the eldest son of a family of distinction,' Charlotte repeated clearly. 'Sir Anstey and Lady Wayboume, of Exeter Street.'
Emily stared, ignoring the teapot, and the fragrant steam rising gently in front of her.
'That's preposterous!' she exploded. 'How in heaven's name could that happen?'
'He and his brother had a tutor,' Charlotte said, beginning to tell the parts of the story that
