his visit to Mrs.-whatever her name was. Grandmama had been dropping small, barbed remarks for days. And there was no use asking Grandmama anyway; she would immediately either tell everyone directly or else drive them mad with innuendos until someone dragged it from her.
Emily was playing the piano. Next to her Sarah was playing bezique with Dominic. Could she ask Sarah? Part of her longed to ask Dominic, to have something to share with him, to ask his advice. And yet within her there was also a growing resistance, a fear that Dominic would not meet the standard of wisdom she needed, that he would give her an answer that was not decisive, did not commit him.
She had no deep confidence in Sarah either, but there was no one else. She found an opportunity to approach her on the landing before retiring.
“Sarah?”
Sarah stopped in surprise. “I thought you had gone to bed.”
“I want to speak to you.”
“It cannot wait until morning?”
“No. Please come into my bedroom.”
When the door was closed Charlotte stood against it, and Sarah sat on the bed.
“I went to see Mrs. Abernathy today.”
“I know.”
“Did you know that George Ashworth was closely acquainted with Chloe just before she was killed?”
Sarah frowned.
“No, I didn’t. I’m sure Emily doesn’t know either.”
“So am I. And Mrs. Abernathy believes that he took Chloe to places very unsuitable for a decent woman, and that it was through him that she may well have met whoever killed her, at least that the association was in part responsible-”
“Are you quite sure of what you’re saying, Charlotte? I know you don’t care for Lord Ashworth. Are you not perhaps letting your prejudices run away with you?”
“I don’t believe so. What should I say to Emily?”
“Nothing. She wouldn’t believe you anyway.”
“But I must warn her!”
“Of what? All you can tell her is that Ashworth admired Chloe before he met her. That will help no one. And why shouldn’t he? Chloe was very pretty, poor little thing. I don’t doubt he has admired a great many girls, and will admire a great many more.”
“But what about Emily?” Charlotte demanded. “What if he really did have something to do with Chloe’s death? Emily could find out. She could even be next!”
“Don’t be hysterical, Charlotte!” Sarah said sharply. “Mrs. Abernathy is very old-fashioned and very narrow in her background. I daresay what appears very daring and immoral to her would be no more than ordinary high spirits to us. I have heard her express disapproval of the waltz! How stuffy is it possible to be? Even the queen waltzes, or she used to before she became old.”
“Mrs. Abernathy was talking about murder, not waltzing.”
“To us they are opposite ends of the pole, but to her they are not so far apart. In her mind a person capable of one may very well contemplate the other.”
“I didn’t know you had such a sense of humour,” Charlotte said bitterly. “But this is not the time to show it. What should I say to Emily? I cannot merely do nothing.”
“At least you haven’t told your dreadful policeman yet!”
“Of course I haven’t! And that observation is hardly helpful!”
“Sorry. Perhaps we had better have Emily in here and tell her-I don’t know precisely what. I suppose the truth?” As she spoke she stood up and came to the door.
Charlotte agreed. It was the best idea, and she was grateful for Sarah’s support. She stood aside for Sarah to leave.
A few moments later they were all in Charlotte’s bedroom, the door closed.
“Well?” Emily asked.
“Charlotte heard something today which we think you ought to know,” Sarah replied. “It’s in your own interest.”
“When people say that, it always means something unpleasant.” Emily looked at Charlotte. “All right, what is it?”
Charlotte took a deep breath. She knew Emily was going to be angry.
“George Ashworth was very well-acquainted with Chloe just before she was murdered. He took her to a great many places.”
Emily’s eyebrows rose. “Did you imagine I did not know that?”
Charlotte was surprised. “Yes, I did. But perhaps you do not know what kinds of places? Apparently they were places where moral women do not go.”
“You mean whorehouses?”
“Emily, please!” Sarah said sharply. “I appreciate you are angry, but there is no need to be coarse.”
“No, I do not mean-whorehouses!” Charlotte said sharply. “At least I don’t think I do. But this is not a matter to be taken lightly. Remember that Chloe is dead, and remember how she died. Mrs. Abernathy believes that it was her association with George Ashworth that led to her death, either directly or indirectly.”
Emily’s face was white. “You have not left me unaware that you dislike George, even perhaps that you are jealous, but this is spiteful and quite beneath you! Goodness knows, I am sorry enough for Chloe’s death, but it had nothing to do with George!”
“How do you know?”
“Because it is only your prudish spite that imagines it might have! I know George and you do not. Why on earth should he do such a thing?”
“I don’t know! But I am not telling you for spite, and it is very wrong of you to say so! I am telling you because I could not bear it if the same thing were to happen to you, if through George Ashworth you met someone who-”
Emily let out a sigh of impatience. “If Chloe mixed in bad company then it was because she had not the wit to recognize it. I hope you do not put me in the same category?”
“I really don’t know, Emily,” Charlotte said honestly. “Sometimes I wonder.”
Emily was defensive again. “So what are you going to do? Tell Papa?”
“What for? He could forbid you to see George Ashworth but you would still do whatever you wished-only secretly, which would be even worse. Just-just be careful!”
Emily’s face softened. “Of course I shall be careful. I suppose you mean well. But really sometimes you are- so pompous and such a prude I despair of you! Well, I’m too tired to stand here any longer. Good night.”
Charlotte stared at Sarah when Emily had gone.
“You can’t do any more,” Sarah said quietly. “And honestly, I don’t think Ashworth had anything to do with it. It’s just Mrs. Abernathy’s imagination. Don’t worry about it. Good night.”
“Good night, Sarah. And thank you.”
Chapter Eight
On the second of October, autumn rain cooling the streets, Maddock knocked on the withdrawing room door after dinner and came in immediately. His trousers were splattered with rain, and his face was gray.
Edward looked up, opened his mouth to question his behaviour, and then saw him. He stood up sharply.
“Maddock! What’s the matter, man? Are you ill?”
Maddock stiffened and swayed a little on his feet. “No, sir. If I might speak to you outside, sir?”
“What is it, Maddock?” Edward obviously was afraid now, too. The room was silent.
Charlotte stared at them, cold knotting up inside her.
“If I might speak to you in confidence, sir?” Maddock asked again.
