But instead of greeting her with words of welcome and enquiry as ordinary courtesy dictated, he simply met her eyes, the questions understood between them. It was a familiarity which warmed her far more than she expected, and left her wishing for words, and finding none of them satisfactory.
“Was that Charlotte I saw with you?” Joshua asked quietly.
“Yes—yes, she wished to come.”
He took her by the arm and guided her away from the stage wings towards the audience seats, out of earshot of the others, and into the half shadow.
“Is she still pursuing Kingsley’s death?” he asked very quietly, his voice filled with anxiety.
“Of course,” she replied, meeting his eyes. “We can hardly give up.”
“I don’t think she needs to anymore.” He spoke as if he were feeling his way through complicated thoughts. “Since Judge Stafford’s death the police are involved. It is no longer as if it could be forgotten or marked as closed. Poor Aaron cannot be blamed for this. Please, Caroline, persuade her to leave it to those whose profession it is.”
“But they have not been very successful so far,” she reasoned. She felt a stab of guilt towards Pitt, but her fear for Joshua far outweighed it. “They have not succeeded yet. It does not appear they suspect either Mrs. Stafford or Mr. Pryce, in fact the very contrary. They are persuaded they are innocent.”
“Are you sure?”
“Certainly I am sure. Thomas would not lie to me.”
He smiled, a mixture of affection and amusement. “Are you sure, my dear? Might he not tell you something less than the truth, in the knowledge that you have formed a friendship for Tamar”—he colored very faintly—“and for me, which might incline you to be biased in the matter?”
She felt the heat burn in her cheeks. “He might well tell me less than the truth, but he would not fabricate something gratuitously,” she replied. “I have come to know him quite well over the years. He was certainly not my choice of a husband for my daughter, it is true, but I have learned that there are occasions when a man who is socially unsuitable may make one far happier than any man one’s friends or one’s family may have chosen—” She stopped, realizing she had spoken her thoughts too frankly. They were capable of interpretation for herself, as well as for Charlotte.
He made as if to respond, then changed his mind, cleared his throat and began again, but she did not miss the momentary flash of laughter in his eyes.
“All the same, I think it would be well for Charlotte to leave the matter,” he said gravely. “It may become dangerous. If it was not Aaron, then it was someone else, someone who obviously does not hesitate to kill again, and again, if he feels endangered. I have no idea whether Charlotte will come close enough to him for that, but she may, even without knowing it. She and Clio have become friendly with Kathleen O’Neil. I can only imagine it is to pursue Devlin. If he realizes that, or only fears it …” He left the rest unsaid.
Caroline was torn. Was Charlotte really in danger? More than she had been in every other case in which she had helped? Who would suspect a woman, an ordinary wife and mother? “Of being overly inquisitive, perhaps,” she said aloud. “Of being vulgar in her curiosity. Of trying to intrude where she has no—no right of background or breeding.” How disloyal she sounded. “But that is not dangerous, merely undignified and possibly absurd.”
“Judge Stafford is dead, and so, I read, is Constable Paterson,” he pointed out.
“But they were officers of the law,” she argued vehemently. “And you say she and Miss Farber are pursuing Devlin O’Neil. But the police are far more likely to pursue you. Have you no fear for yourself?”
“Caroline!” He took both her hands in his, gently but holding her too hard for her to withdraw. “Caroline! Of course I have. But what kind of friend would you consider me if I placed my own fear of being suspected ahead of Charlotte’s danger from whoever really killed Kingsley—and the others? Please, tell her she must leave the matter altogether. I am too afraid that it may really have been Devlin O’Neil. I cannot think of anyone else it could be— except some madman. But if it was that, there would surely have been others the same, and there have not been.”
“And what about you?” she said urgently, still in her own mind clinging to the hope that Charlotte might solve it, as she had other crimes in the past. “The police were wrong once, and there was nobody who could save Aaron.”
“I know that, my dear, but it does not alter the situation.” His voice was very gentle, his hands over hers warm, but his hold was hard and there was no wavering in his eyes. “I know the police suspect me. I will at least have a trial, and a chance to appeal. Whoever is killing people will not give Charlotte as much.”
“No,” she said quietly. “No, I suppose not. I will tell her.”
He smiled, letting go of her hands but at the same time taking her arm. “Shall we go somewhere pleasant and take afternoon tea? We can forget the world and its dangers and suspicions, tonight’s performance, and simply think how much we enjoy talking. There are so many other things.” He started to move and pull her gently with him. “I have just read a fascinating book about a journey of the imagination. Quite impossible to turn into a play, of course, but I am still enormously enriched to have read it. Provoked all kinds of thoughts—and questions. I shall tell you about it, if I may? I want to know what you think.”
Caroline gave in to the sheer pleasure of it. Why not? She wished this sweet intimacy could last forever, but she was realist enough to know that of course Grandmama was right; it was a dream, a delusion, and waking would be much the colder afterwards. But it was not afterwards yet, and she would give all her heart to it while she could.
“Of course,” she agreed with a smile. “Please tell me.”
“You ’aven’t said anyfink about the murder for days, ma’am,” Gracie said to Charlotte the next morning as they were working in the kitchen. Gracie was cleaning the knives with Oakey’s Wellington knife polish, made of emery and black lead; and Charlotte cleaned the spoons and forks with a homemade mixture of hartshorn powder, water and alcohol.
“That is because I haven’t learned anything further,” she explained, pulling a face. “We know it wasn’t Aaron Godman, but we are no nearer knowing who it really was.”
“Don’t we know nuffink at all?” Gracie said, squinting around the knife she was holding up.
“Yes, of course we know some things,” Charlotte replied, polishing industriously. “It was someone who knew
