when all’s clear. She’s usually a woman. Works better that way. And Bessie was as ’andsome as a summer day, she was.”
“What happened to her?”
“Died of cholera, she did, in ’sixty, the year before the American war. Poor Bessie.”
“How old was she?”
“Eighteen, same as me.”
Younger than Emily, younger than Lily Mitchell. She had lived in the slums, been a carrier of burglar’s tools, and died of disease at age eighteen. It was an existence which mocked Charlotte’s tidy life, with its small difficulties. The only big thing that had ever happened to her was her love of Dominic, and Lily’s death. Everything else was comfortable. Have we mended all the linen? Shall we preserve peaches or apricots? Is the fishmonger’s bill too high? What shall I wear to the party on Friday? Do I really have to be civil to the vicar? And all the while there were people like this funny little man here fighting just to eat. And some of them lost: the smallest and the weakest, the most easily frightened.
“I’m sorry,” was all she could say.
He looked at her closely. “You’re a funny creature,” he said at last.
Before she could react to that, the doors swung open and Pitt came in. His face dropped in surprise when he saw her. Apparently whoever was outside had failed to forewarn him.
“Miss Ellison! What are you doing here?”
“She’s waiting for you.” The little man shot to his feet with excitement. “She’s been here sittin’ this past half hour.” He pulled an exceedingly elegant gold watch out of his pocket.
Pitt stared at it. “Where did you get that, Willie?”
“You got a nasty mind, Mr. Pitt.”
“I’ve got a nasty temper, too. Where did you get it, Willie?”
“I bought it, Mr. Pitt!” His outrage carried no anger, only ringing innocence.
“From whom? One of your dolly-shops?”
“Mr. Pitt! That’s real gold, that is. It’s quality.”
“Pawnshop then?”
“That’s not nice, Mr. Pitt! I bought it respectable.”
“All right, Willie. Go out and convince the sergeant while I talk to Miss Ellison.”
Willie lifted his hat and bowed elaborately.
“Out, Willie!”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Pitt. Good afternoon, ma’am.”
Pitt closed the door behind him and indicated a chair for Charlotte. Now that he was alone with her he seemed less assured, conscious of the shabby surroundings. Charlotte found herself wishing to put him at ease. She pulled out the letter straight away.
“Our new maid, Millie, handed this to me a little over an hour ago. She found it this morning in her room. I should explain that the room used to be Lily’s.”
He took the letter and unfolded it. He read it, and then held it up to the light.
“It doesn’t look old, and hardly the type of letter one would wish to keep. I think we may presume she received it shortly before she was killed.”
“It’s a threat?” She moved a little closer to look at it herself.
“It would be difficult to read it as anything else. Although, of course, it may not be a threat of death, by any means.”
A world of fear opened up to Charlotte’s imagination. Poor Lily! Who had threatened her, and why had she not felt she could turn to any of them to help her? What isolated struggle had been going on in their house under the smooth exterior of housemaid’s black and white?
“What do you suppose they wanted her to do?” she asked. “Whoever wrote that letter? Do you think you can find them, and punish them?”
“They may not have killed her.”
“I don’t care! They frightened her! They tried to force her to do something she obviously did not want to! Isn’t that a crime?”
He was looking at her with surprise, taking in her anger, her sense of outrage and pity, and perhaps guilt because it had all happened in her house and she had not seen it.
“Yes, it is a crime, if we could prove it. But we don’t know who wrote it, or what he wanted her to do. And the poor little creature isn’t alive to complain now.”
“Aren’t you going to find out!” she demanded.
He put out a hand, as if to touch her, then remembered himself and withdrew it.
“We’ll try. But I doubt that the person who wrote this killed her. She was garotted exactly the same way, with a wire from behind, as Chloe Abernathy and the Hiltons’ maid. A cracksman might have threatened two maids, but he would never have tried it with a girl like Chloe.” His eyes opened wider with a new thought. “Unless, of course, he mistook her for Lily. They were of a similar height and colouring. I suppose in the dark-”
“What would he threaten them for? Two maids, I mean?”
“What? Oh, burglars often use housemaids to let them in and tell them where all the valuables are in the house. Perhaps if she refused-,” he sighed. “But it seems a rather extreme way of going about business, and largely unnecessary. A burglar could find enough indoor servants who are willing, or loose-tongued, not to need to resort to this kind of thing.”
“Why didn’t she come to us?”
“Probably because it wasn’t a burglar at all, but some kind of romantic involvement,” he replied. “Something she preferred that you not be aware of, that she thought you wouldn’t approve of. I expect we shall never know.”
“But you will try?”
“Yes, we’ll try. And you did the right thing to bring it. Thank you.”
She found herself uncomfortable under his gaze, and she was conscious of the shabby room again. What had made him become a policeman? She realized how little she knew about him. As so often happened, her thoughts spilled into words.
“Have you always been a policeman, Mr. Pitt?” she asked.
He was surprised, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes which at any other time she might have found irritating.
“Yes, since I was seventeen.”
“Why? Why did you want to be a policeman! You must see so much-” She could not find the exact words for all the misery and squalor she imagined.
“I grew up in the country. My parents were in service; my mother was cook and my father gamekeeper.” He gave a wry little smile, conscious of their difference in station. “They were with a gentleman of considerable means. He had children of his own, a son about my age. I was allowed to sit in the schoolroom. And we used to play together. I knew rather more about the country than he did. I had friends among the poachers and gypsies. Very exciting for a small boy, son of the manor house, with too many sisters and too much time spent with lessons.
“Pheasants were stolen from the estate and sold. My father was blamed. He was charged at the assizes, and found guilty. He was sent to Australia for ten years. In my own mind, I was convinced he didn’t do it-naturally, I suppose. I spent a long time trying to prove it. I never succeeded, but that was when it started.”
She imagined the child, caring desperately, burning with confusion and injustice. She felt a tenderness for him which appalled her. She stood up quickly and swallowed.
“I see. And you came to London. How interesting. Thank you for telling me. Now I must return home, or they will be anxious for me.”
“You shouldn’t have come alone,” he frowned. “I’ll send a sergeant back with you.”
“That’s not necessary. I thought you might want to speak to Millie, and so I brought her with me.”
“No, I see no reason to speak with her now. But I’m glad you were wise enough to have her come with you.” He smiled with a tiny, downward gesture. “And I apologize for doubting your good sense.”
“Good day, Mr. Pitt.” She went out of the door.
“Good day, Miss Ellison.”
