his name and that he was at the theater, and deliberately sent him to a place where he would pass through Farriers’ Lane to get there. And to do what was done to him, they must have hated him very much indeed.” She reached for a fresh cloth to raise a shine. “Apart from the obscenity of it, it would be dangerous to remain there any longer than necessary after having killed him. The rage must have outweighed the sense of self-preservation.”
“You’re tellin’ me,” Gracie said with feeling. “If I’d just murdered someone I wouldn’t ’ang around to nail ’im up to a door—which can’t ‘a’ bin easy!” She tipped more polish out of the tin into a saucer. “I’d ’ave been out o’ mere as fast as me legs ’d carry me! Afore anyone else came an’ found me there!”
“So it was someone so overcome with hatred they would rather take the risk, or else they didn’t even think of it,” Charlotte concluded.
“Or else …” Gracie rubbed the knife blade furiously. It was already shining. “Or else it were someone wot ’ad another reason for doin’ it—like to put the blame on someone else. Which since poor Godman was ’anged fer it, worked very well.”
“But how did crucifying him put the blame on Aaron Godman?” Charlotte asked, passing the buffing cloth to Gracie.
“Well, it made everyone think it were someone as were Jewish,” Gracie reasoned.
“But a Christian person wouldn’t do that, surely?”
“Maybe ’e would! Maybe that’s exactly what ’e would do, if ’e ’ated Jews and wanted ’em blamed.”
“Why would anyone hate Jews that much?” But already Charlotte’s mind was racing over the Harrimores, Adah’s beliefs, Devlin O’Neil’s knowledge that Kingsley Blaine was in love with Tamar Macaulay, a Jewess. Perhaps in some twisted way he had hated not only Blaine but all the theater people, and when he killed Blaine he had suddenly thought of a way to implicate someone else in the crime.
“You don’t think so, do you, ma’am?” Gracie said, watching her face carefully. “You still fink as it were Mr. Fielding, ’im wot Mrs. Ellison likes.”
“I don’t know, Gracie. I suppose it could be Mr. O’Neil. Part of me wishes it were. Mama is going to be terribly hurt if it is Mr. Fielding. And yet if it isn’t …” She sighed, and refrained from saying what was in her mind.
“You shouldn’t ought to worry so much, ma’am,” Gracie said, her little face puckering up with anxiety, the knives momentarily ignored. “Mrs. Ellison’ll do what she wants ter, and there in’t nothing you nor the master can say as’ll change it. But I do understand as yer gotter know ’oo done the murder in Farriers’ Lane. An’ I keep on thinking about it, like.” She stopped even pretending to work and put her cloth down, staring at Charlotte with total concentration. “That lad wot took the message across the street to Mr. Blaine at the door. If the master could speak to ’im proper, away from all them other rozzers, maybe ’e’d be able ter say summink more as ter wot the man were like.” Her face was sharp with hope. “The rozzers before, the ones wot did the case in the beginning, they told ’im as it were Mr. Godman. Well, bein’ as ’e were just a lad on the street, ’e wouldn’t want ter argue wiv ’em, would ’e? But bein’ as you know it weren’t Mr. Godman, maybe ’e’d say summink ’elpful?”
“Mr. Pitt found him,” Charlotte said with a bleak smile. “He wouldn’t say anything that was helpful at all, I’m afraid. But it was a good idea.”
“Oh.” Gracie renewed her polishing, but her face was deep in thought, and she said little more for the rest of the morning, except to look very carefully at Charlotte just before they began peeling the vegetables for dinner.
“You goin’ ter the theater termorrow wif them ’Arrimores?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you be careful, ma’am! If it were that Mr. O’Neil as done it, then ’e’s a very wicked man, an’ ’e don’t care nuffink for nobody ’cept ’isself. Don’t you go askin’ questions.”
“I shall be very careful,” Charlotte promised. But there was a sinking feeling in the bottom of her stomach and a catch in her throat, as if she were close to something that would prove to be very dreadful.
Charlotte felt guilty that Pitt was not included in the evening visit to the theater because it was such a vivid, exciting event quite apart from any information that might be gleaned from the Harrimores or the O’Neils. But had Pitt come it would almost certainly have put an end to any discussion at all, now, and in the future.
So with an effort of will she followed Caroline up the wide stairs behind Kathleen O’Neil on Devlin’s arm, and Adah Harrimore leaning heavily on Prosper, who, although he limped in an ungainly fashion, seemed to feel no pain in his foot. Presumably the limp’s cause was the deformity with which he was born, and not a degenerative disease.
The entire foyer was filled with people. The chandeliers blazed so one could barely look at them, shedding cascades of light. Jewels sparkled in elaborate coiffures and at arms, throats and wrists, and on hands. Feathers waved as heads turned. Pale shoulders gleamed amid bowers of silk, taffeta, voile and velvet of every shade, the pallor of lilies, the warmth of peach and rose, the flaring vibrancy of scarlet, magenta and blue, and behind them all the stark black and white of dinner suits.
Everywhere was the rustle and whisper of fabric, the murmur of voices, every few moments a burst of laughter.
Charlotte turned once on the stairs to look behind her and remember it all, the quickening of the pulse, the overflowing life, the expectancy as if a thousand people all knew that something thrilling was about to happen.
Then Caroline pulled at her arm and obediently she went on up and around the wide balcony towards the Harrimores’ box, where she and Caroline were offered center seats, as guests, between Adah on their left and Kathleen on their right. The two men sat on the outside a little to the rear. It was some fifteen or twenty minutes before the performance was due to begin. Watching others arrive was a great deal of the pleasure of such an event, and of course being seen oneself.
A very handsome woman walked up the aisle beneath them, dressed in shades of fuchsia and palest pink, her black hair piled luxuriantly, her step graceful, but nonetheless a slight swagger. She looked from right to left, smiling a little.
“Who is she?” Charlotte asked quietly.
“I don’t know,” Caroline replied. “She is certainly most striking.”
Kathleen gave a very tiny laugh, and stifled it immediately.
