and stale air. The warden did not look at her as he spoke, and she was led into a small room with a scarred wooden table and two upright chairs. This privilege was granted only because Pitt was still technically an innocent man.
It took all the strength she possessed not to weep when she saw him. His clothes were dirty, the clean shirt she had brought him was already torn, and there were bruises on his face. She dared not imagine what there might be on his body that she could not see. Neither wardens nor prisoners had any love for a policeman turned murderer. The warden commanded Charlotte and Pitt to sit at opposite sides of the table while he stood upright in the corner like a sentry and watched them.
For several moments she just sat and stared. It would be ridiculous to ask him how he was. He knew she cared; that was all that was necessary, and there was nothing she could do to alter any of it.
Then the emotion became too strong and she spoke simply to break the tension.
“Mama has taken the children. It will be easier for them, and for me. Gracie is wonderful. I sent a letter to Emily. Jack Radley took it to her. I asked her to stay where she is-don’t argue with me. It is the only way we shall learn anything.”
“Charlotte, you must be careful!” He leaned forward, then as the jailer stepped towards them, realized the uselessness of it. “You must get Emily out of there-it’s too dangerous!” he said urgently. “Someone has already killed three times to keep the silence over what happened that night in Hanover Close. You mustn’t go again. Send a letter to say you are sick, or that you’re going back to the country. That would be better. Promise me! Leave it to Ballarat, he’ll handle it now. They haven’t told me who he’s put on the case, but whoever it is will come and see me, and I’ll tell him all I know. We must be getting close for them to have killed Cerise. Promise me, Charlotte!”
Her hesitation was only momentary. She would defend him in whatever manner necessary, and by whatever means she could find. She did not stop to think, or weigh judgment, any more than she would have done had Daniel or Jemima been in the street in front of a runaway horse. It was as instinctive as gasping for breath when the water closes over your head.
“Yes, Thomas, of course,” she lied without a flicker. “Emily will stay with me for a while, or I’ll stay with her. Don’t worry about any of us, we’ll be perfectly all right. Anyway, I’m sure Mr. Ballarat won’t take long to discover the truth. He must know perfectly well that you couldn’t have killed Cerise. Whyever should you?”
Some of the fear eased out of his face and he tried to smile. “Good,” he said quietly. “At least I know you’re all right. Thank you for your promise.”
There was no time for guilt; the hangman waited. She smiled back. “Of course,” she said with a gulp. “Don’t worry about us.”
10
Emily watched the ashes of Charlotte’s letter crumbling in the morning room fire and felt a numbness, a sense of disbelief invade her mind. It was impossible. Thomas arrested for murder and imprisoned-it was absurd! Any moment now reality would reassert itself. She should not have burned the letter; she must have misread it. She looked at the red hollow in the coals where the paper had collapsed. There were only little incandescent folds left, and even as she watched, the draft caught them and they shivered to pieces and were consumed.
The door opened behind her and the butler came in.
“Are you all right, Amelia?” he said gently. There was concern in his voice, even something close to a personal tenderness. Dear God! She could not be coping with that now!
“Yes thank you, Mr. Redditch,” she said gravely. “My sister has been taken ill.”
“Yes, so Mr. Radley said. It was very good of him to come. Lady Ashworth must think most highly of you. What is it your sister suffers from?”
She had not even thought of that. “I don’t know,” she answered helplessly. “The-the doctors don’t know- that’s what is so worrying. Thank you for letting me have Saturday afternoon. It’s very good of you.”
“Not at all, my dear girl. Edith can cover for you; goodness knows you’ve covered for her often enough! Now you go into the kitchen and sit down. Take a cup of tea and recover yourself.” He touched her arm gently, and his hands were warm.
“Thank you, Mr. Redditch,” she said quickly. “Sir.”
He stepped back reluctantly. “If there is anything I can do, please feel you may ask,” he added.
She wanted to thank him, to smile and meet his eyes, let him know his kindness was not unnoticed, but she dared not. It might only cause more hurt in the end.
“I will, sir,” she said, looking down at her apron. “And I’ll go and get a cup of tea, as you said. Thank you.” And she hurried past him out into the hall, through the baize door and into the kitchen.
She sat in the kitchen with the large round teacup in her hands, her mind whirling as she tried to think what to do. Her first instinct was to rush to Charlotte to be with her, to protect her from the jeers, the doubts, and to be with her in the long evenings when there was nothing else to interrupt the fear.
But Charlotte was right; pain was incidental, it must be overcome alone if need be, because there was no time for comfort. They could not afford to huddle together for today’s hurt at the cost of tragedy which would darken all tomorrows. The answer was in the truth, and that lay here in Hanover Close. As Amelia, Emily was the only one with any chance of finding it.
She could no longer allow things to progress at their present pace. Obviously it all had to do with the woman in cerise, and whatever had happened here in this house three years ago. Perhaps it had been between her and Robert York; maybe there had been a third person. But Emily believed one of the women who was here now either knew or suspected the truth, and she was determined to wring it from her somehow.
What made people crack? Shock, panic, overconfidence? Pressure gradually increased until it was unbearable-that was it. There was no time to wait for mistakes to happen. Three years had accomplished nothing, and Loretta certainly was not one to give way to carelessness; her guard was impenetrable. One had only to look at her bedroom with its tidy drawers, everything in its place, all her gowns with their matching boots and gloves, to know that. Her underwear was extremely expensive, but it was all coordinated, nothing odd or impulsive. Her dinner gowns were individual, highly feminine, but there were no experiments, none of the errors of judgment Emily had in her own wardrobe, attempts to imitate someone else’s panache that had not quite worked, shades that had not flattered after all. There was nothing in the entire house that did not suit Loretta, either among her personal belongings or in the general furniture. Loretta did not make mistakes.
Veronica was different, a generation younger, and far more beautiful by nature. She had more flair, more courage; sometimes she ordered things on impulse and they were marvelous-that black gown with the jet- encrusted bodice was superb, better than anything Loretta could ever wear-but the gray silk was a disaster. Loretta would have known that and never run the risk. Sometimes Veronica was uncertain, full of self-doubt, and that made her rash; she tried too hard. Emily had been amazed at first to see her change her mind as to what she would wear, or how she would dress her hair. Yes, Veronica might well break under pressure, if it was severe enough, sustained enough.
It was a cruel thought, and an hour ago Emily would not have entertained it-but an hour ago she did not know Thomas was in prison awaiting trial for his life. She regretted her decision, but she did not consider any other.
She finished her tea, thanked the cook for it with a meek smile, and set out to go upstairs and begin. The first thing she did was to find a pair of Veronica’s boots which needed resoling to give her an excuse to go out. A breath of fresh air and a walk would be a kind of freedom, and she was longing just to be alone, to move swiftly without being closed in by walls. She had never realized before how little time a maid ever had unwatched or supervised by someone; and even in weather like this she missed the opportunity to be outside, to see the sky other than in tiny pieces blocked off by the frame of a window. The claustrophobia of being available all the time, of having her solitude or her company ordered for her, was increasingly difficult to bear, even though there was a certain pleasure in sharing the evenings, the simple humor, and at times a little fun. But the main purpose was to be able to account for her news when she returned.
Today no one questioned her as she left with the boots under her arm.
