“Don’t worry about Grandmama. If she says anything to Papa he will be very angry with her, and she will come off the worse for it.”
Caroline was too surprised to hide it. She swung round in the chair to stare at Charlotte’s back.
“Whyever do you think that?”
Charlotte still looked out of the window.
“Because Papa was somewhere he does not wish to speak of. We must face that. Therefore he will be angry with whoever mentions it again.”
“What on earth do you mean?” Caroline could hear her own voice shaking now. “What are you saying, Charlotte? You cannot suspect your father-of-of-”
“I don’t know. Perhaps he was gambling, or drunk, or associating with people we would not like. But he does not wish Mr. Pitt or us to know of it. It is no use pretending to each other. We cannot pretend to ourselves. But don’t worry, Mama, he cannot have had anything to do with Lily, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”
“Charlotte-,” she could think of nothing else to say. How could she stand there so calmly, speaking those words?
“I think it may be very foolish,” Charlotte went on-and this time Caroline heard the catch in her voice and knew she was only keeping control of herself with the greatest effort- “because I think Mr. Pitt will find out anyway.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. And it will seem the worse for not being revealed of one’s own free will.”
“Then, if we could persuade him-,” but she knew she lacked the courage. Edward would be angry, go into that cold bitter retreat she had experienced only a few times-like the occasion she had defied him over Gerald Hapwith. That was years ago, and all so silly now. But the pain of the estrangement was easy to remember.
And more than that, she was afraid to know what it was he wanted to hide. Perhaps Pitt would not find out?
But he did. Mr. Pitt returned two days later, in the evening and-perhaps to be sure of catching Edward-by surprise, not having called in the morning to forewarn them. They were all at home.
“This is not very convenient, Mr. Pitt,” Edward said coolly. “What is it this time?”
“We have established that you must have walked back along Cater Street, from approximately five minutes to eleven, until a few minutes past the hour.”
“You had no need to come to tell me that,” Edward was sharp. “Since I arrived home at about quarter after, that much is obvious.”
Nothing seemed to discompose Pitt.
“To you, sir, who know what you did. To us, who have to accept your word, it is satisfying to obtain proof. If murderers could be caught merely by asking them, our job would hardly be worth doing.”
Edward’s face froze.
“What are you implying, Mr. Pitt?”
“That we have established that you left Mrs. Attwood at quarter to eleven. It would take you about half an hour of comfortable walking to reach your home here, and you would pass along Cater Street between five to eleven, and about five past.”
Edward was white-faced.
“You had no right-!”
“It would have been a great deal easier, and have saved much time, sir, if you had given us Mrs. Attwood’s address earlier. Now perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me where you were on the night Chloe Abernathy met her death?”
“If you know where I was on the night Lily was killed, you know I can have had nothing to do with it,” Edward said between his teeth. For the first time he looked really frightened. “What do you imagine I can tell you about Chloe Abernathy?”
“Only where you were,” Pitt smiled broadly. “And if possible, with whom?”
“I was with Alan Cuthbertson, discussing business in his rooms.”
Pitt’s smile became wider, if anything.
“Good, that is what he says, but since he was acquainted with Miss Abernathy fairly well, it was necessary to check that he was being precisely honest. Thank you, Mr. Ellison. You have done Mr. Cuthbertson and the police a service. I’m obliged. Ma’am,” he inclined his head in a small bow. “Good night.”
“Who is Mrs. Attwood, Papa?” Sarah said immediately. “I don’t recall your having mentioned her?”
“I doubt I did,” Edward said, looking away. “She is a rather tiresome woman who is a dependent of a man who once did me a favour, and is now dead himself. She has become ill, and I occasionally render her some small, practical assistance. She is not bedridden, but close to it. She seldom leaves the house. You might visit her yourself, if you wish, but I warn you she is most tiresome, and wandering somewhat in her mind. She confuses reminiscences with fantasy on occasion, although at other times she is lucid enough. No doubt it comes from spending a great deal of time alone, and reading romantic novels of the cheapest kind.”
The relief was immense, but later that night in bed, Caroline woke and began to think. At first she worried about the fact that Edward had been so concerned about hiding his visit to this Mrs. Attwood. Was it really to protect a sick woman? Or because she was perhaps a little common, a little loud, someone he did not wish to be associated with?
Then the deeper worry came to the surface and would not be ignored. She had questioned in her mind, had feared for a moment that he had had something to do with Lily. He was lying beside her now, asleep. She had been married to him for more than thirty years. How could it even have crossed her mind that he had murdered a girl in the street? What kind of a woman was she to have considered such a thing, even for a second? She had always believed she loved him, not passionately of course, but adequately. She knew him well-or she had believed so until this week. Now she realized there were things about him she did not know at all.
She had lived in the same house with him, the same bed, for over thirty years, and borne him three children, four counting the son who had died when only a few days old. And yet she had actually considered he might have garotted Lily.
What was her relationship worth? What would Edward think or feel if he knew what had been in her mind? She was confused, and ashamed, and deeply afraid.
Chapter Seven
It was the following week, the beginning of September and hot and still, when Millie came to Charlotte in the garden. Her face was pink and she looked flustered. She had a piece of paper in her hand.
Charlotte put down the hoe she was using to poke around the soil between the flowers. It was a pastime rather than a job, an excuse to be outside instead of attending to the preserves she should have been stewing for Sarah to bottle. But Sarah was out with Dominic on some social affair, while Emily was at a tennis party with a whole group of people, including George Ashworth, and Mama was visiting Susannah.
“What is it, Millie?”
“Please, Miss Charlotte, I found this letter this morning. I’ve been trying to decide all day what I should do about it.” She held out the piece of paper.
Charlotte took it from her and read:
Deer Lily,
This is to tel yu that I ant warnin yu any mor. Ither yu dus as yur told or itll be the wors for yu.
It was unsigned.
“Where did you get this?” Charlotte asked.
“I found it in one of the drawers in my room, Miss. Where Lily used to be.”
“I see.”
“Did I do the right thing, Miss?”
“Yes, Millie, you did. Most certainly. It would have been very wrong not to have brought it to me. It-it might be important.”
