“Are you feeling better?” Justine asked solicitiously.
Charlotte felt as if she must be blushing scarlet. “Yes … yes, thank you,” she stammered. “Much better. I … I wasn’t nearly as ill as I thought. Maybe the room was a little warm. A … a drink of water.” That was a stupid remark. There was plenty of water available in the dining room. It was the easiest place to find it. And the room had not been hot. Her guilt must be standing out like spilled wine on a clean tablecloth.
Justine smiled.
“I’m so glad. I expect it is just the distress of the last few days. I am sure it will affect all of us, one way or another.”
“Yes,” Charlotte said gratefully. “Yes, that will be what it is.”
Justine walked past her. She moved extraordinarily grace fully, back straight, head high, a very slight swing to her skirts. One side brushed against one of the chairs on the landing. Charlotte, who was staring after her, saw a glimpse of heel, blue heel. Justine’s gown was smoky gray-blue, with darker patterning on it. Blue slippers were right. On the first evening she had been there, when Greville had been killed, she had worn another blue dress.
Charlotte stood on the spot as if she truly were faint. She found herself gripping the railing to steady herself. Perhaps Gracie had been mistaken? She had seen the heel only for an instant. Maybe it had been gray or green? Gaslight could be misleading. It could alter colors, everyone knew that, certainly every woman. There were colors which suited perfectly in the daylight, and by gaslight made one look a hundred and jaundiced into the bargain.
She was still in the same spot when Emily came up the stairs towards her.
“What’s the matter?” Emily demanded. “You look terrible. You aren’t really ill, are you?”
“No. I saw the shoes ….”
Emotion crowded Emily’s face—elation, fear, anxiety.
“Good! Whose are they?” she demanded.
“Justine’s. She’s wearing them right now.”
Emily stared at her. “Are you sure?”
“No … yes. No, I’m not sure. Except I am, because they aren’t anyone else’s.”
Emily said nothing. She looked suddenly sad, hurt, as Charlotte felt.
“I must go and tell Thomas,” Charlotte said after a moment or two. “I wish it were not her.”
“Why?” Emily shook her head.
“Because I like her ….” Charlotte said lamely.
“No … I mean why would she kill Greville,” Emily clarified. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“I know that.” Charlotte started to move at last. “But she had the shoes. That’s what I’m going to tell Thomas … just that she had the shoes.”
As soon as Charlotte entered the withdrawing room Pitt stood up, excusing himself to the others, and came towards her, his face intent.
“Are you all right?” he asked her in barely more than a whisper. “You do look rather pale. Did you find the shoes?”
“Yes …”
“Well? Where are they?” Now he looked pale as well, his eyes hollow, dark-ringed from lack of sleep. “Are they Eudora’s?”
She managed the ghost of a smile. She would have preferred it if they were.
“No … they are Justine’s. She’s wearing them now.”
He stared at her. “Justine’s?” He said exactly what Emily had. “Are you sure? It makes no sense! Why on earth would Justine want to kill Ainsley Greville? She only met him—” he stopped.
Padraig Doyle moved forward from the fire where he had been standing. “Are you all right, Mrs. Pitt?” he asked with some concern.
“I’m sure she will be,” Pitt said quickly, putting his arm around Charlotte. “I think it would be better if she went upstairs and lay down. The long journey to London yesterday must have been too much for her. Please excuse us both?” And with a charming smile he guided Charlotte out of the room and closed the door behind them as Kezia also politely wished Charlotte restored health.
“You make me sound like some drooping lily,” she said hotly the moment they went out of earshot. “One trip on the train and I faint all over the place. They’ll think I’m too feeble for words.”
“We can’t afford to care what they think,” he replied impatiently. “Come on upstairs. We have to reason this through and make some kind of sense out of it.”
She went obediently. She had no desire to sit through an afternoon’s polite conversation in the withdrawing room, and if Justine returned she would not be able to hide the confusion or the sadness she felt. She thought she was quite a good actress and could mask her feelings rather well, but Emily said she was awful. On reasonable consideration, with some honesty, it was possible Emily was right.
Up on the landing Pitt turned not towards their room but in the opposite direction, towards the Grevilles’ bathroom. He opened the door and went in. She followed with a shiver, although in fact it was not cold, except to the mind.
“Why in here?” she said quickly. “I can think just as well in the bedroom.”
“I want to re-create exactly what happened,” he replied, closing and locking the door.
“Will that help?” she asked.
