under fire, even when his own position might be threatened. He was less certain of his judgment. Did he really have an understanding of how powerful Augustus FitzJames’s friends might be and how little innocence or guilt might matter to them, so long as there was every chance it would never be exposed? And had he also considered that FitzJames might also have enemies who were equally powerful? Jago Jones’s words rang in his mind and he could not ignore them.
“You haven’t answered me.” Cornwallis broke the train of his thoughts.
“I wish I had someone else who had seen Finlay in Whitechapel … anyone else at all,” Pitt replied. “I can’t find any evidence of his having been there, that night or at any other time. I’ll put Tellman on it tomorrow, as discreetly as possible.”
“Doesn’t prove anything,” Cornwallis continued. “He may usually do his whoring in the Haymarket, doesn’t mean to say he didn’t go to Whitechapel this time. Have you tried cabbies? Other street women? Local constables on the beat?”
“Ewart has. No one has seen him. But they know him farther west.”
“Damn,” Cornwallis swore under his breath. “When were the cuff link and the badge last seen by his valet, or anyone whose evidence is reasonably unprejudiced?”
“Valet’s been with him for years and has never seen either,” Pitt replied.
Cornwallis digested this in silence.
The carriage lamps moved slowly along the street towards them and the sound of wheels and hooves came up through the still air.
“What do you think, Pitt?” he said at last.
“I think he’s guilty, but I don’t think we’ve proved it yet,” Pitt replied, surprising himself as he said it. “But I’m not sure,” he added.
“Well, you’d better make sure,” Cornwallis said grimly. “Within the next week.”
“Yes sir,” Pitt agreed. “I’ll try.”
5
Emily spent a very ordinary day, like any other during the London season. She rose at eight and at nine went riding in the Park, where she nodded to a score of acquaintances, all of whom were agreeable enough, but none were particular friends. But the day was fine, the air brisk and sweet, and her horse was an excellent beast. She rode well, and returned a little after ten, feeling invigorated.
Jack had already left for Whitehall and Edward was in the schoolroom, so she ate alone. Evie was in the nursery being cared for by the nursemaid.
She spent the next two hours reading and answering correspondence, of which there was not a great deal. Largely she wasted time. She planned the day’s menu, over which she could not consult Jack because he was not there. Next she called the housekeeper and discussed half a dozen domestic matters with her regarding linen, parlor maids’ duties, the new scullery maid, the mark on the library carpet and several other things, to discover they had all been dealt with satisfactorily without her advice.
She spoke to her ladies’ maid, and found that she too had already solved all the minor problems which had arisen.
“The red ink on the sleeve of my morning dress,” she began. She had been leaning over Edward’s map of India, admiring it.
“Already done it, m’lady,” Gwen said with satisfaction.
“Gone?” Emily was amazed. “Red ink?”
“Yes, m’lady. Mustard does it. Smeared a little mustard over it before it was laundered. Works a treat.”
“Thank you.”
“An’ if I could have a few drops of gin, m’lady, I’ll clean up the diamonds in your bracelet. They’ve got a bit dusty over use. I asked Cook, but she wouldn’t give it me without your say-so. Reckon she thought I might drink it!”
“Yes, of course,” Emily agreed, feeling utterly redundant.
She fared no better with the nursemaid and the cook.
At noon she left the house in her own carriage and went to call upon her mother, only to find that she was out. She debated whether to go shopping or visit an art gallery, and decided upon the latter. It was extremely boring. The pictures were all very genteel, and to her, appeared exactly the same as the exhibition the previous year.
She returned home, where she was joined for luncheon by her grandmother, who demanded an account of her morning and her plans for the remainder of the week. When she had heard them, she dismissed them as trivial, scatterbrained and totally frivolous. She spoke out of envy, because she would dearly have liked to have done the same, but Emily privately agreed with her.
“You should be supporting your husband!” the old lady said viciously. “You should be engaged in some worthy work. I was, at your age! I was on the parish council for unmarried mothers. I can’t tell you the number of wicked girls whose futures I helped decide.”
“God help them,” Emily muttered.
“What did you say?” the old woman demanded.
“How helpful,” Emily lied. She did not want a full-scale battle.
At half past three she attended an afternoon concert with the wife of one of Jack’s friends, a worthy woman with very limited conversation. She found almost everything “uplifting.” At half past four they went together to a garden party and remained for half an hour, by which time Emily was ready to scream. She wished she had paid afternoon calls instead, or gone to a charity bazaar alone, but it was too late.
At half past six Jack returned home in something of a hurry. They dined in haste and then changed before leaving for a theater party with friends they knew only slightly. At half past eleven they had supper, made a great deal of light, very trivial conversation. By a quarter to one she was in bed and too tired to think constructively, but quite sure the day had been wasted.
Tomorrow she would do something with purpose. In the morning she could use the telephone and discover at which social function she could expect to run into Tallulah FitzJames. She would address the matter of helping her, either with her romantic decision regarding Jago and how to effect a satisfactory conclusion or else with clearing her brother of the suspicion of having committed the murder in Whitechapel, or possibly even both.
At a little after two o’clock, having lunched early, Emily dressed in her most gorgeously fashionable afternoon gown: an exquisitely cut pink brocade with a confection of silk at bosom, neck and elbow, and a skirt which moved most flatteringly as she walked. She took an outrageous hat, one by which even Aunt Vespasia would be impressed, and a matching parasol, then set out for a flower show in Kensington where she had ascertained Tallulah was very likely to be.
She arrived at three, alighted from her carriage and immediately saw several ladies of her acquaintance. She was obliged to exchange greetings and to accompany them into the succession of tents and enclosures filled with arrays of flowers and blooming shrubs and trees. Small wrought-iron tables painted white were set between, with two or three graceful chairs by each. Beautifully dressed ladies wandered from arrangement to arrangement, often accompanied by gentlemen in afternoon frock coats, cutaway jackets, striped trousers and shiny, tall hats. Here and there young girls of twelve or fourteen stood primly in flounced dresses, long hair held back with ribbons around their heads, or made faces at each other when they imagined no one was looking.
Emily’s heart sank. She had forgotten how crowded flower shows were, how many winding pathways there were between the exhibits, arbors under potted trees, and places between arrays of blossoms and under overhanging boughs where people might talk discreetly or flirt. One could keep assignations with little chance of being seen by those one would prefer to avoid. No doubt that was why Tallulah had chosen such a place. It sounded so respectable. What could be more appropriate for a young lady to attend than a flower show? How feminine. How delightfully innocent. No doubt she could learn much about gardens, conservatories and the tasteful ways of decorating one’s formal rooms for dinners, soirees or any other manner of receiving guests. All of which would be the last thing on Tallulah’s mind.
