“I don’t know where to begin,” she said, her misery returning. “Cerise is dead. Apart from the murderer she may be the only one who knew the truth.”
“Well, at least we know she wasn’t the murderer herself,” he pointed out. “Someone killed her, and it would be too much to assume it’s coincidence, just as Thomas found her. And we must suppose someone, almost certainly the same person, killed poor Dulcie.”
She stared at him. “That means someone in the York house, or one of the Danvers, or Felix or Sonia Asherson.”
“That’s right.”
“But what would any of them be doing in a place like Seven Dials?”
“Murdering Cerise to keep her silent,” he answered very quietly, his face more somber than she had ever seen it. There was an anger in him, a weight she had not found before. “I think that means they knew where she was all the time,” he went on. “They could hardly have run into her by chance.”
“One of the Yorks, the Danvers, or the Ashersons,” she said again. “Emily-” She stopped. Emily was alone in the York house, unable to defend herself except by a disguise of ignorance, and Pitt was imprisoned in Coldbath Fields awaiting trial for murder. Both could end in death.
But Emily was free; at least she could fight for herself!
But surely justice-! The truth? Ballarat would-
She must stop behaving like a child, deceiving herself into comfort, finding excuses to avoid the painful. Ballarat would do nothing.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said quietly. “Don’t ask Emily to come home. The only way she can help Thomas is by staying where she is. Whoever murdered Cerise, and Robert York and Dulcie, is in Hanover Close, and the only way we are going to find that person is by watching them so closely we see what emotions lie behind the facades, who is frightened, who is lying.”
He sat still. For a moment she was afraid he was going to argue, point out the dangers to Emily, perhaps even tell her all the accidents that could be made to happen; but he said nothing.
“You and I can keep going as often as possible,” she went on. “But we can never see them in their unguarded moments as she can. Have you any idea how much a woman trusts her lady’s maid?”
For the first time he smiled. “I imagine about as much as a man trusts his valet,” he answered. “Or perhaps a trifle more: women spend more time at home, and on the whole give more attention to appearance.”
There was another aspect that needed explaining, Charlotte realized.
“Jack, she probably won’t see a newspaper. Maids don’t, especially if there is something sensational in it. The butler will keep it from them.” She saw the surprise in his face. “Of course he will! He won’t want all his maids swapping horror stories under the stairs, and up half the night with nightmares.” It was plain from Jack’s face that he had never thought of that, and she realized with a brief shadow of pity that he had very few roots. He was an eternal guest, never a host, too well-bred to be poor, but without the means to keep up with his peers. But there was no time for such issues now. Then she remembered that already one of her own servants had left, and if Pitt was not cleared very soon there would be pressure on Gracie too. Her mother would try to persuade her to find a better place. And come to think of it, Charlotte had no money and she would not be able to keep Gracie anyway, or anyone else. She had enough of her allowance from her own inheritance to eat, at least for a few weeks-The fear loomed up again. She was not only afraid of isolation and insufficient means, but worst of all, life without Pitt. There was not even time to make up for the stupid arguments, to be to him all the things she wanted to be.
She must not think of it, it would destroy her. She took a long breath, her lungs hurting as if the air were sharp. She must fight-anybody and everybody if necessary.
“Please ask Emily to stay there,” she repeated.
“I will.” Jack hesitated, and for the first time he looked awkward, his eyes avoiding hers, scanning the tabletop, the row of blue-ringed dishes on the dresser beyond. “Charlotte-have you any money?”
She swallowed. “For a while.”
“It’s going to be hard.”
“I know.”
He colored faintly. “I can give you a little.”
She shook her head. “No. Thank you, Jack.”
He searched for words. “Don’t-don’t let pride-”
“It’s not pride,” she assured him. “I’m all right for now. And when I’m not …” Please God she would have found the murderer by then, and Pitt would be free! “When I’m not, Emily will help.”
“I’ll go and tell her. I’ll say it’s a family illness-they’ll let e in for that. Even the butler wouldn’t be martinet enough to deny anyone the right to that sort of news.”
“But how will you explain knowing it? You’ll have to explain that, or they’ll be suspicious.” Always at the front of her mind was the necessity to learn the truth, before everything else. “They won’t leave you alone with her, you know. There’ll be the housekeeper there, or the other lady’s maid, for propriety if nothing else.”
He looked taken aback for a moment, then he brightened. “Write a letter. I’ll say it’s from her family, explaining the situation. She can ask for a day off, to come and visit you on your sickbed.”
“Half day,” she corrected automatically. “She hasn’t been there long enough for one yet, but they might give it to her on grounds of compassion. Please do, Jack-go today. I’ll write a letter straightaway, and I’ll tell her to burn it as soon as she’s read it. There are plenty of fires.” She stood up even as she was speaking and went hastily into the parlor, turning up the lights, not noticing how cold it was till her fingers touched the icy surface of the desktop. She took out paper, ink, and pen and began to write.
Dearest Emily,
Something completely appalling has happened-Thomas found Cerise but she was already dead. Someone broke her neck, and they have arrested him for her murder. They have taken him to “the Steel” in Coldbath Fields, to await trial. I went to Mr. Ballarat, but he will do nothing. Either they have told him to leave it alone, or he is simply a coward and is only too glad to be rid of Thomas before he unearths something embarrassing about someone in power.
It is all up to us now, there is no one else. Please stay where you are and be very, very careful! Remember Dulcie! Half of me wants to beg you to come home with Jack immediately, tonight, so you will be safe; the other half knows you and I are Thomas’s only chance. He must have been close on the trail of someone very powerful and very dangerous. Please Emily, be careful. I love you,
Charlotte
She blotted it rather clumsily. It was scribbled, and her fingers were stiff. Then without rereading it she folded it, not very straight, and slipped it into an envelope. She sealed it, put the top back on the ink, and turned the gas down before going back to the kitchen. She gave the letter to Jack.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he promised. “We must plan.”
She nodded, overwhelmed with loneliness now that he was going. With him here she did not feel so frightened; even with Gracie’s loyalty, and the children, she would be alone when he was gone. Then there would be time to think, and nothing to do all the long, cold night. She dreaded waking in the morning.
“Good night.” She forced the moment to come, because waiting for it was worse, and she did not want to weep again. It was pointless, and too hard to stop.
“Good night.” Now at the point of going he also seemed reluctant. He was worried for her, and she knew it. Perhaps he really did love Emily. What an unspeakable way to discover it!
Jack hesitated a moment more, then as he could think of nothing further to say, turned and went to the door. She followed to let him out and watched him step into the street, where the wet cobbles shone in the dim gaslight, globes hung like baleful moons in haloes of rain.
He touched her cheek gently, then walked rapidly away towards the main road and the passing hansoms.
She was so tired she should have slept well, but her dreams were filled with fear, and she woke up many times, fighting for breath, her body aching with tension and her throat sore. The darkness seemed interminable, and when at last the gray dawn came, with rain beating on the window, it was a relief to get up. She was so tired she fumbled with her gown when she went downstairs to draw the pitcher of hot water, then changed her mind and washed in the kitchen anyway; it was warmer. Before dressing she decided to have a cup of tea. The taste of it would wash away some of the gritty feeling and its heat might wash out the tightness in her throat.
