They both froze.
“Who goes there?” a loud masculine voice demanded. “Stop, or it’ll be the worse for yer!”
“Oh God!” Emily sobbed. “It’s the police!”
“We’ll tell them what we found!” Charlotte said boldly, but her legs were shaking and her stomach felt decidedly sick. For a moment or two her feet would not obey her.
Emily tried to speak, but no coherent sound came.
The constable was almost upon them. His cape and gleaming buttons were clearly visible. He held up his bull’s-eye lantern and stared at them incredulously.
“Well now then, what ’ave we ’ere? Two servant girls out to steal the lettuces, eh?”
“Most certainly not,” Charlotte said with as much dignity as she could muster, which was very little. “We are —”
Emily suddenly came to life and gave her a resounding kick.
Charlotte shrieked and swore involuntarily.
“Now then!” the constable said calmly. “There’s no need for bad language, miss. Who are yer, and wot are yer doing ’ere? I’ll ’ave ter take yer in charge. Yer don’t live ’ere. I know all Mrs. Arledge’s servants, and yer ain’t one of ’em, or two of ’em I should say.”
There was no evading the issue.
“No we are not!” Charlotte said, finding her voice at last. “My husband is Superintendent Thomas Pitt, of Bow Street station. And this is my—my maid.” There was no need to incriminate Emily, at least not yet She felt rather than heard Emily’s sigh of relief.
“Now then, miss, that’s a silly story that will just get you nowhere,” the constable said with some surprise.
“This is the scene of a murder!” Charlotte said fiercely. “There are bloodstains in that greenhouse, and if you don’t call Superintendent Pitt you will never be excused for it!”
“ ’E’ll be at ’ome in ’is bed,” the constable said firmly.
“Of course he will. He lives at number twelve, Gordon Square, Bloomsbury. Send for him!” Charlotte ordered imperiously. “And there’s a telephone.”
“Well, I don’t know if …”
He was saved from further argument or excuse by a light in the house going on and the scullery door opening.
“What’s going on?” a man’s voice called out peremptorily. “Who’s there?”
“Police, sir,” the constable replied confidently. “Constable Woodrow, sir. I just caught two burglars in your garden.”
“We are not burglars!” Charlotte hissed.
“You be quiet!” Constable Woodrow was becoming unhappy; he was placed in a ridiculous situation. “No need to worry, sir. Everything is in ’and, you tell Mrs. Arledge not to disturb ’erself. I’ll take care of this.”
“It is nothing of the sort,” Charlotte said with sudden desperation. “We are not burglars. Send for Superintendent Pitt immediately.” She gulped. It was now or never. Everything was in the balance, Pitt’s career, their home. “This is the—the scene of a murder!”
“Murder?” The butler, dressed in his nightshirt, came out of the doorway at last, the lantern still in his hand. “Who is dead?”
“Mr. Arledge, you fool!” Charlotte said exasperatedly. “He was killed in his own greenhouse, and taken to the park in a wheelbarrow. Now send for the police! Have you one of the new telephone instruments?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then use it. Call Bloomsbury one-two-seven and fetch Superintendent Pitt.”
“Now, just a minute …” Woodrow began, but the butler had already turned and gone back into the house. A decisive command was better than standing in his nightshirt on the steps in the cold, arguing with a constable. He knew Pitt’s name, and the mistress had welcomed him in the house. He would sort out this fearful situation.
“Yer shouldn’t ’ave done that!” Woodrow said angrily.
A light sprang on upstairs in the house.
“Now look what you’ve done!” he went on. “Woke up poor Mrs. Arledge. As if she ’adn’t enough to bear, what with ’er ’usband’s death an’ all.”
Charlotte ignored him, pulling her shawl tighter around her. Now that they were no longer absorbed in what they were doing, she was growing cold.
Emily stood beside her shivering. She did not even wish to imagine what Jack might say when this came to his knowledge. There was just a faint hope Charlotte’s lie would hold.
That was ruined by more lights from the house and footsteps across the kitchen, and after a moment more, Dulcie Arledge herself appearing in the scullery doorway, dressed in a gorgeous sky-blue wrap and with her brown hair falling gently over her shoulders.
“What is going on here?” she asked with polite surprise. “Have you found intruders, Constable? Did I understand correctly?”
“That’s right, ma’am.” Woodrow stepped forward, dragging Charlotte and Emily with him.
