“Saw Tilda Garvie this mornin’,” she replied, banging the lid onto the tea caddy unnecessarily hard and keeping her back to the table. “She in’t seen ’er brother fer days, an’ she’s real worried summink’s wrong.”
“What sort of something?” Charlotte asked.
The kettle began to whistle and Gracie put her hand around the pot holder as she lifted it off the hob. She scalded the teapot, pouring the water down the sink, then put the leaves in and filled it from the kettle. She could no longer find any excuse for not sitting down, so she did so stiffly, avoiding meeting Charlotte’s eyes.
“ ’E in’t livin’ in the ’ouse in Torrington Square where ’e worked,” she answered, “an’ the butler says ’e don’t work there no more, but ’e din’t tell ’er wot ’appened or where ’e went.” She had not intended to look at Charlotte, but suddenly the reality of Martin’s situation outweighed her own pride. “An’ if things was all right ’e wouldn’t do that, ’cos they’re real close,” she went on hurriedly. “They got nob’dy else. Wotever’d ’appened, ’e’d ’a told ’er, ’specially since ’e missed ’er birthday, an’ ’e in’t never ever done that before.”
Charlotte frowned. “What did he do at the house in Torrington Square?”
“Valet ter Mr. Stephen Garrick,” Gracie replied immediately. “ ’E weren’t just a footman or the like. An’ Tilda said Mr. Garrick relied on ’im. I know people can get throwed out easy enough if they do summink daft, or even if it jus’ looks like they did, but why couldn’t ’e ’a said summink ter Tilda? Just ter keep ’er from worryin’.”
“I don’t know,” Charlotte said thoughtfully. She reached over and poured the tea for both of them, then replaced the pot on the trivet. “It does sound as if he was very distressed about something, or he would surely have told her he was moving. He may even have found a better position. Can Tilda read?”
Gracie looked up, startled.
“Well, it would be harder to send her a letter if she can’t,” Charlotte reasoned. “Although I suppose somebody would read it for her.”
Gracie felt the sinking feeling inside her grow worse. She was hollow, and yet the thought of eating was repellent. She sipped her tea, and its hot sweetness slid down her throat and made no difference.
“What else?” Charlotte asked gently.
Gracie still hesitated. There was a kind of comfort in being so well understood, but she was still embarrassed to have been so incompetent in dealing with Tellman. It was made worse by the fact that she had always done it so well before. Charlotte would expect better of her than this. She would be disappointed in her. Women were supposed to be cleverer than she had been. She sipped her tea again. It was really too hot. She should have waited.
“Did you learn something else?” Charlotte pressed.
That was easy to answer. “Not really. Even when she told the butler as she was ’is sister, ’e din’t tell ’er wot ’appened, nor where ’e’d gone.”
Charlotte looked down at the table. “Mr. Pitt isn’t in the police anymore. Perhaps we should ask Mr. Tellman and see if he can help.”
The heat burned up Gracie’s cheeks. There was no escape. “I already asked ’im,” she said miserably, looking down at the table-top. “ ’E says as there in’t nothin’ ’e can do, ’cos Martin’s got a right ter come an’ go without tellin’ ’is sister. It in’t no crime.”
“Oh.” Charlotte sat silently for several moments. Carefully she tried her tea and found it just cool enough to drink. “Then we’ll have to do something ourselves,” she said at last. “Tell me everything you know about Tilda and Martin, and about the Garrick house in Torrington Square.”
Gracie felt like a lost sailor who finally sees land on the horizon. There was something they could do. Obediently she told Charlotte the facts of her acquaintance with Tilda, picking out what mattered: her honesty, her stubbornness, the memories of childhood she had spoken about, her dreams of her own family one day, and the things she had shared with her brother over the lonely years of growing up.
Charlotte listened without interrupting, and in the end nodded. “I think you are right to worry,” she agreed. “We need to know where he is and if he is all right. And if he is without a position and is too embarrassed by that to have told his sister, then we must make sure she understands, and then if possible, help him to obtain something else. I suppose you have no idea if he is likely to have done something foolish?”
“I dunno,” Gracie admitted. “Tilda wouldn’t do nothin’ daft, but that don’t mean ’e’s the same. She thinks ’e is- but then she would.”
“It is very hard to think ill of our own,” Charlotte agreed.
Gracie looked up at her, eyes wide. “What are we gonna do?”
“You are going to tell Tilda that we’ll help,” Charlotte answered. “I shall begin to make enquiries about the Garrick household. Stephen Garrick at least will know what happened, even if he does not know where Martin Garvie is right now.”
“Thank yer,” Gracie said very seriously. “Thank yer very much.”
ON THE FOURTH DAY after the murder of Edwin Lovat was discovered, the newspapers openly demanded the arrest, at least for questioning, of Saville Ryerson. He was known to have been on the premises at the time, and the writer of the article did not need to do more than ask what business he would have had there to suggest the answer.
Pitt sat at the breakfast table, tight-lipped, his face pale. Charlotte did not make any comment or otherwise interrupt what was obviously a painful train of thought. The defense of Ryerson which Mr. Gladstone had commanded was becoming more and more difficult. She watched him discreetly, and wished there were some way to offer comfort. But if she were honest, she believed Ryerson was guilty, if not of the crime, then at least of attempting to conceal it. Had someone not called the police, he would have removed the body from where the murder took place and done all he could to obscure the evidence. That was a crime. No ability to solve the cotton industry problems in Manchester could justify that-in fact, there was no stretch of the imagination which could connect it at all with his keeping of a mistress in Eden Lodge. It was a private weakness, an indulgence for which he would now have to pay very heavily indeed.
She looked at the anxiety in Pitt’s face and a wave of anger swept over her that he should be expected to carry the responsibility for rescuing a man from his own folly, and then blamed because he could not do what any fool could see was impossible. He was being coerced into trying to evade a truth which it was both his duty and his own moral need to expose. For years they had used him to do that; now they had forced him into the position of denying the very values which had made him honorable before.
He looked up quickly and caught her glance.
“What?” he asked.
She smiled. “Nothing. I’m going to see Emily this morning. I know Grandmama will be there, and I haven’t really managed to speak to her without embarrassment ever since Mama learned about… what happened to her.” She still found it uncomfortable to speak of… even to Pitt. “It is more than time I did so,” she went on hastily. She had arranged the visit over the telephone the previous evening, after speaking with Gracie. Pitt had a telephone because of his professional need for it, and Emily had one because she could afford pretty well anything she cared for.
The shadow of a smile crossed Pitt’s face for an instant. He was long acquainted with Charlotte’s grandmother and knew her temper of old.
Charlotte said no more about it, and when Pitt left, without letting her know what he hoped to seek or to find that day, she went upstairs and changed into her best morning gown. She did not follow fashion-it was far beyond her financial means, the more so since Pitt had been demoted from being in charge of Bow Street to working for Special Branch-but a well-cut gown in a color that was flattering had a dignity no one could rob from her. She chose a warm, autumn shade to complement her auburn-toned hair and honey-fair complexion. The gown had not the current high-shouldered sleeves, but the almost nonexistent bustle was just right.
It was not an occasion for the omnibus, so she took the price of a hansom out of the housekeeping money, and arrived at Emily’s opulent town house at quarter past ten.
She was shown in by a parlor maid who knew her well and conducted her immediately to Emily’s boudoir-that private sitting room wealthy ladies kept for the entertaining of close friends.
Emily was waiting for her, dressed as always with the utmost elegance, in her favorite pale green which so suited her fair coloring. She stood up as soon as Charlotte was in the room, excitement in her face, her eyes bright. She came forward and gave Charlotte a quick kiss, then stood back. “So what has happened?” she demanded. “You said it was important. It sounds terribly heartless of me to put it into words, I know, when it was a real blow to
