cook pastry to save herself; you could shoe horses with it. That’s why Hallam always eats pastry when he is out. But she is a genius with sauces. I shall beg her for a recipe to impress Aunt Vespasia. That will flatter her, and then I can pass on to general conversation. I am convinced Hallam knows about what is going on. He has behaved like a man haunted for the last month or more. I think, in his own way, he is as frightened as Phoebe!”
They were almost to the door. She stopped to let her shawl fall a little more gracefully, adjusted her hat, and then pulled the bell.
The footman opened the door immediately; his face fell with surprise when he saw two unaccompanied women.
“Lady-Lady Ashworth! I’m sorry, ma’am, but Mr. Cayley is not at home.” He ignored Charlotte. He was not sure who she was and had more than enough to deal with without her.
Emily smiled disarmingly.
“How unfortunate. I was wondering if he might be kind enough to permit me to speak with your cook. Mrs. Heath, isn’t it?”
“Mrs. Heath? Yes, m’lady-”
Emily favored him with a dazzling look.
“Her sauces are quite famous, and, as I have my husband’s aunt, Lady Cumming-Gould, staying for the Season, I wanted to impress her with something special now and then. My cook is excellent, but-I know it is an impertinence, but I wondered if Mrs. Heath would be generous enough to share a recipe? Of course, it would not be the same, not made by her, but it would still be remarkable!” She smiled hopefully.
He thawed. This was his realm and understandable.
“If you care to wait in the withdrawing room, m’lady, I’ll ask Mrs. Heath to come up and see you.”
“Thank you, I’m obliged.” Emily swept in, and Charlotte followed behind her.
“You see!” Emily said triumphantly when they were seated and the footman had disappeared. “All it needs is a little forethought.”
When Mrs. Heath arrived, it was immediately apparent that she had decided to revel in her moment of glory. Negotiations were going to be protracted, and she would require every possible compliment before parting with the secret of her creations. It was equally obvious that she would share them; the fame already glittered in her eyes.
They were about at the point of accomplishment, when a small, very smutty maid came clattering down the stairs and burst into the withdrawing room, mobcap askew and hands black.
Mrs. Heath was outraged. She drew breath to deliver a blast of rebuke, but the girl spoke before her.
“Mrs. Heath, please, mum! The chimney’s on fire in the green room, mum. I lit the fire to get rid of that smell like you told me to, and now it’s all smoke everywhere, and I can’t put it out!”
Mrs. Heath and Emily looked at each other in consternation.
“It’s probably a birdnest in the chimney,” Charlotte said practically. Since her marriage, she had had to learn about such things. She had called the sweep more than once for her own house. “Don’t open the windows, or you’ll make the draught worse, and it’ll really burn. Get a long handled broom, and we’ll see if we can dislodge it.”
The maid stood, unsure whether to obey a strange woman or not.
“Well, go on, girl!” Mrs. Heath decided she would have given the same advice, if good manners had not prevented her from speaking first. “I don’t know why you had to ask me!”
Emily seized the chance to reinforce her advantage, rather than risk being cut short before her real purpose by an inopportune domestic emergency.
“It may be quite far up. Perhaps we had better see if we can help. If it is not done properly there may be a real fire.” And without waiting for agreement, she marched out of the door and followed the scuttering maid up the stairs. Charlotte went as well, curious to see more of the house, and to hear anything that might be said, not that she shared Emily’s expectation of any useful information regarding Fulbert or Fanny.
The green bedroom was indeed full of smoke, and the fumes caught in their throats as soon as they opened the door.
“Oh!” Emily coughed and stepped back. “Oh, that’s awful. It must be a very big nest.”
“Perhaps you’d better get a bucket of water and put the fire out,” Charlotte said sharply to the maid. “Can you fetch a pitcher from the bathroom, and be quick. Then when it is out we can open all the windows.”
“Yes, mum.” The girl scurried away, now thoroughly frightened, in case she should be blamed for the whole affair.
Emily and Mrs. Heath stood coughing, happy for Charlotte to take command.
The girl came back and offered the pitcher to Charlotte, eyes wide and alarmed. Mrs. Heath opened the door, then, when she saw no flames, decided to reassert herself. She took the pitcher and strode in, hurling the contents on the billowing fireplace. There was a belch of steam and soot flew out, covering her white apron. She leapt back, furious. The girl stifled a giggle and turned it into a choke.
But the fireplace was dead and black, running trickles of sooty water into the hearth.
“Now!” Mrs. Heath said with determination. She had a personal vendetta with the thing, and it was not going to beat her, especially not in front of visitors and her own upstairs maid. She seized the broom the girl had been using to sweep the floor and advanced on the chimney. She launched a brisk swipe up the cavernous hold and struck something unyielding. Her face fell in surprise.
“It’s an awful big nest! I shouldn’t wonder if the bird’s still there, by the feel. You were right, miss.” She poked fiercely at it again and was rewarded with a fall of soot. She momentarily forgot her language and abused it roundly.
“Try poking to one side, and see if you can unbalance it,” Charlotte suggested.
Emily was watching closely, her nose wrinkled.
“It doesn’t smell very pleasant,” she said unhappily. “I’d no idea wet fires were so-so sickly!”
Mrs. Heath put the broom in slightly sideways and jabbed hard. There was another trickle of soot, a scraping noise, and then, quite slowly, the body of Fulbert Nash slithered down the chimney and fell spreadeagled across the wet fireplace. It was blackened with soot and smoke, and maggots had infested the flesh. The smell was unspeakable.
Nine
Pitt found no pleasure at all in the discovery of Fulbert’s body, not even the satisfaction of solving a mystery. He had expected Fulbert to be dead, but the deep stab wound in his back made suicide impossible, even if someone else had disposed of the body by stuffing it up the chimney. Although he could think of no reason why any innocent person should do so, except perhaps Afton Nash, to hide his brother’s guilt. To everyone else, a suicide was the perfect answer to the rape and murder of Fanny.
And Fulbert had been dead a long time, probably since the night he disappeared. The body was decomposed in the heat of summer and riddled with maggots. It was not possible he could have been alive to attack Selena.
It was another murder.
They brought a closed coffin and took him away. Then Pitt turned to the inevitable. Hallam Cayley was waiting. He looked appalling; his face was gray and running with sweat, and his hands shook so badly the glass rattled against his teeth.
Pitt had seen shock before; he was used to watching while people came face to face with horror or guilt or overwhelming grief. He had never learned to tell one kind of shock from another. Looking at Cayley now, he did not know what the man felt, except that it was total and appalling. Pitt’s mind observed and thought of questions to ask, but a feeling of pity drenched him and put reason into a silent background.
Hallam set the glass down.
“I don’t know,” he said hopelessly. “So help me God, I did not kill him.”
“Why did he come here?” Pitt asked.
“He didn’t!” Hallam’s voice was rising; his control was thin, slipping away. “I never saw him! I don’t know what the hell happened!”
