utterly different from permitting one of them to court one’s daughter.” He snorted and was obliged to blow his nose. He flinched in pain as the linen of his handkerchief rubbed the red flesh.
“You had better start doing your job a little more effectively, Mr. Pitt. Everyone here is suffering appallingly. As if the heat and the Season were not enough! I loathe the Season, with its endless simpering young women dressed by their mothers and taught to parade like cattle at a fat stock show, young men gambling away their money, whoring around, and drinking till they cannot even remember which idiocy they were at the night before. Do you know I went to see Hallam Cayley at half past ten on the morning Fulbert disappeared, to inquire if he had seen him, and he was still insensible from the previous night? The man is only thirty-five, and he’s a dissipated wreck! It’s obscene!”
He looked at Pitt without pleasure. “One thing to be said for your type, I suppose, at least you are too busy to become drunk, and you cannot afford it.”
Pitt straightened up and put his hands into his pockets to hide the clenching of his fists. He had seen every kind of moral and spiritual wreck thrown up with the flotsam of London’s underworld, but nothing that offended him, as did Afton Nash, without stirring up a modicum of pity. There must be some deep and dreadful scar on this man he did not even guess.
“Does Mr. Cayley drink a great deal, sir?” he asked with soft voice.
“How the devil should I know?” Afton snapped. “I do not frequent that sort of place. I know he was drunk the other morning when I called, and he behaves like a man who has indulged himself beyond the point his stomach can bear.” He jerked his head up to look at Pitt again. “But look at the Frenchman. There is something sly and over intimate about him. God only knows what foreign aberrations he has! There is no one in his house but his own servants. He could be doing anything in there. Women are incredibly foolish. For God’s sake, protect us from this- this obscenity!”
Six
Emily did not mention Fulbert’s disappearance to Charlotte, and she heard of it from Pitt. There was nothing she could do about it so late in the evening, or indeed the following day. Since Jemima was grizzly with cutting teeth, Charlotte did not feel it fair to ask Mrs. Smith to look after her. However, by midafternoon she was so distracted by Jemima’s crying that she slipped over the street to ask Mrs. Smith if she had any remedy for it, or at least something to ease the pain sufficiently for the child to rest.
Mrs. Smith clucked with disapproval at Charlotte and took herself off into the kitchen. A moment later she came back with a bottle of clear liquid.
“You put that on ’er gums with a piece of cotton, an’ it’ll soothe ’er in no time, you just see.”
Charlotte thanked her for it profusely. She did not ask what was in the mixture, feeling she would probably prefer not to know, as long as it was not gin, which she had heard some women gave their babies when they could bear the crying no longer. Still, she imagined she would recognize the smell of that.
“And ’ow’s your poor sister?” Mrs. Smith asked, glad of a few moments’ company and wanting to keep it.
Charlotte seized the chance to prepare the ground to visit Emily again.
“Not very well,” she said quickly. “I’m afraid the brother of a friend has disappeared quite without trace, and it is all very distressing.”
“Oooh!” Mrs. Smith was entranced. “’Ow dreadful! Ain’t that extraordinary, wherever can ’e ’ave gorn?”
“Nobody knows.” Charlotte sensed that she had won already. “But tomorrow, if you will be kind enough to look after Jemima, and I hardly like to ask you when-”
“Never you mind!” Mrs. Smith said instantly. “I’ll look after ’er, don’t you worry. She’ll ’ave them teeth cut in a week or two, and poor little thing’ll feel the world better. You just go and see to your sister, love. Find out what ’appened!”
“Are you sure?”
“’Course, I’m sure!”
Charlotte gave her a dazzling smile, and accepted.
Actually she was going as much for curiosity as in any belief that she could help Emily. But she might help Pitt, and perhaps that was what was in her heart. After all, Fulbert’s disappearance could hardly make anything worse for George. And she had a great desire to speak again with Aunt Vespasia. As Vespasia frequently pointed out, not always at happy moments, she had known most of the people in the Walk since childhood and had a prodigious memory. So often, small clues, threads from the past, could point to something in the present that would otherwise be overlooked.
She arrived at Emily’s house at the traditional time for afternoon tea and was shown in by the maid, who recognized her now and ushered her in.
Emily already had Phoebe Nash and Grace Dilbridge with her, and Aunt Vespasia joined them from the garden almost at the same time as Charlotte came in at the other door. The usual polite greetings were exchanged. Emily told the maid she might bring in the tea, and a few minutes later it arrived: the silver service and bone china cups and saucers, minute cucumber sandwiches, little fruit tarts, and sponge cakes spread with fine sugar and whipped cream. Emily poured the tea, and the maid waited to hand it around.
“I don’t know what the police are doing,” Grace Dilbridge said critically. “They don’t seem to have found the slightest trace of poor Fulbert.”
Charlotte had to remind herself that, of course, Grace had no idea that the police in question included Charlotte’s husband. The notion of having a social connection with the police was unthinkable. She saw a bright spot of color in Emily’s cheek, and surprisingly it was Emily who came to their defense.
“If he does not wish to be found, it would be extremely difficult even to know where to begin,” she pointed out. “I would have no idea where to start. Would you?”
“Of course not.” Grace was put out by the question. “But then I am not a policeman.”
Vespasia’s magnificent face was perfectly calm except for a faint surprise, but her eye flickered over Charlotte for an instant before fixing on Grace.
“Are you suggesting, my dear, that the police are more intelligent than we are?” she inquired.
Grace was momentarily floored. It was certainly not what she had intended, and yet somehow she seemed to have said it. She took refuge in a sip of tea and then a nibble at a cucumber sandwich. A look of confusion passed over her face, followed by polite determination.
“But everyone is so appallingly upset,” Phoebe murmured to fill the gap. “I know I miss poor Fanny still, and the whole household seems to be at sixes and sevens. I jump every time I hear a strange sound. I simply cannot help myself.”
Charlotte had wanted to see Aunt Vespasia alone in order to put some questions to her frankly; there would be no point at all in trying to be devious. But she would have to wait until tea was properly accomplished and the visitors excused themselves. She took one of the cucumber sandwiches and bit into it. It was unpleasant, faintly sweet, as if the cucumber were bad, and yet is was crisp enough. She looked at Emily.
Emily had one also. She stared at Charlotte, consternation on her face.
“Oh dear!”
“I think you had better have a word with your cook,” Vespasia suggested, putting down one of the cakes. She reached for the bell herself. They waited until the maid came and was duly sent to fetch the cook.
When the cook came, she was a buxom woman with a good color, who normally might well have been handsome enough, but today looked hot and untidy, although it was long before time for the preparation of dinner.
“Are you feeling unwell, Mrs. Lowndes?” Emily began carefully. “You have put sugar in the sandwiches.”
“And, I fear, salt on the cakes,” Vespasia touched one delicately with her finger.
“If you are,” Emily continued, “perhaps you would prefer to take to your bed for a while. One of the girls can prepare some vegetables, and I am sure there is a cold ham or chicken we could eat. I cannot have dinner turning out like this.”
Mrs. Lowndes stared at the cake stand in dismay, then let out a long wail of anguish, rising at the end.
