than that!”
Pitt heard the confusion in him, and more than that, the disappointment. He understood it sharply. He felt it also. What perversity led a beautiful and brilliant woman to such degradation?
“Was she blackmailed into it, do you supposed?” Tellman asked, swerving to avoid banging into a lamppost.
“Maybe.” He would have to ask. He half hoped that was the answer. The weight of disillusion inside him was heavier than he would have imagined. A dream had been broken, a brightness was gone.
“Must be,” Tellman said, trying to convince himself. “Only answer.”
For Caroline it was not quite the end of the matter with Samuel Ellison. She had liked him very much, not for his resemblance to Edward, or because he liked her or found her attractive, but for his enthusiasm and for the gentleness and the complexity with which he saw his own country. She did not wish to part from him with anger remembered.
She looked across the breakfast table. She and Joshua were alone. The old lady had remained in her room.
“May I write to Samuel and tell him that we have solved the mystery of the letters, and we apologize for the mischief caused? I cannot quite see how to do it without telling him the reasons, and I would prefer not to do that.”
“No,” he said clearly, but his eyes were soft, and he was smiling. “He still behaved a trifle improperly. He admires you, which shows excellent taste, but he was too forward about it. . ”
“Oh. .”
“I shall write to him,” he continued. “I shall tell him what happened, as much as I know. I cannot tell him the old lady’s reason because I don’t know it. And I shall apologize for her appalling behavior, and invite him out to dinner. .”
She smiled, delight flooding through her.
“. . at my club,” he finished, looking amused and a trifle smug. “Then I shall take him to the theatre, if he accepts, and introduce him to Oscar Wilde. I know him passably well, and he is a very agreeable fellow. I am not having him here. Mrs. Ellison may be a mischief-making woman, but Samuel is still too fond of my wife for my peace of mind.”
Caroline felt the color burn up her cheeks, but this time it was pleasure, sharp and delicious. “What an excellent idea,” she said, looking down at the toast on her plate. “I am sure he will enjoy that enormously. Please give him my best wishes.”
“Certainly,” he replied, reaching for the teapot. “I shall be happy to.”
After Joshua left, Caroline went upstairs and asked if Mrs. Ellison was well. She was told by Mabel that so far she had not arisen, and it seemed she had no desire to get up today. Mabel was concerned that perhaps the doctor should be called.
“Not yet,” Caroline replied firmly. “I daresay it is no more than a headache and will pass without treatment- except what you can give, of course.”
“Are you sure, ma’am?” Mabel asked anxiously.
“I think so. I shall go and see her.”
“She didn’t want to be disturbed, ma’am!”
“I shall tell her you said so,” Caroline assured her. “Please don’t worry.” And without arguing the point any further, she went along the landing to the old lady’s room and knocked briskly on the door.
There was no answer.
She knocked again, then opened it and went in.
Mrs. Ellison was sitting propped up against the pillows, her gray-white hair spread around her, her face pale, with dark shadows under her eyes, making the sockets look enormous.
“I did not give you permission to come in,” she said tartly. “Please have the decency to leave. Do I not even have the privilege of being alone in the house?”
“No, you don’t.” Caroline closed the door behind her and walked over to the bed. “I came to tell you that I spoke with Joshua yesterday evening. .”
Mariah stared at her, misery draining her face of all life.
Caroline wanted to be furious with her, but pity overtook justified anger and every shred of the satisfaction in revenge that she had expected.
“I told him you had written the latter to Samuel. . ”
Mariah winced as if Caroline had struck her. She seemed to grow smaller, huddled into herself.
“But I did not tell him why,” Caroline went on. “I said it was something that had hurt you greatly, and he did not ask what it was.”
There was total silence in the room. Slowly Mrs. Ellison let out her breath and her shoulders sagged. “He didn’t. .” she whispered with disbelief.
“No.”
Again there was silence. Caroline searched for words to tell her that the wound would heal, the damage was not irreparable after all, but perhaps it was unnecessary.
Mrs. Ellison started to say something, then stopped. Her eyes did not move from Caroline’s face. She was grateful, it was there somewhere in the depths, but to put it into words would make it real, a solid thing between them, and she was not ready to yield that yet.
Caroline smiled briefly, then stood up and left.
She did not see the old lady again that day.
In the evening, when Joshua had left for the theatre after a very brief supper, the maid announced Inspector Pitt, and Caroline was delighted to see him. The pleasure of having Joshua at home during parts of the day was paid for in far too many lonely evenings.
“Thomas! Come in,” she said with pleasure. “How are you? My dear, you look awfully tired. Sit down.” She gestured to the big armchair near the fire. “Have you eaten?” She was very aware that with Charlotte in Paris he too was alone. He looked even more crumpled than usual and had a forlorn air about him. It was not until he had done as he was bidden and the gaslight caught his face more closely that she realized he was also deeply unhappy.
“Thomas, what it is? What has happened?”
He gave a very small smile, rueful and a trifle self-conscious.
“Can I be so easily read?”
It had been a day of honesty. “Yes.”
He relaxed into the chair, letting the warmth seep into him.
“I suppose it’s Joshua I really wanted to speak to. I should have realized he wouldn’t be here at this hour.” He stopped.
She could see he wanted to talk about something. Whatever it was that had distressed him, he needed to speak of it, and Charlotte was not there.
“I can tell Joshua when he comes home,” she said almost casually. “What is it about? The theatre, I presume. Is it to do with the murder of the photographer?”
“Yes. It is really not something to discuss with a woman.”
“Whyever not? Are you embarrassed?”
“No.” He hesitated. “Well. .”
She thought bitterly of what her mother-in-law had told her. Whatever Pitt had to say, it could hardly be more obscene than that, or more intimately degrading.
“Thomas, I do not need to be protected from life. If you are afraid I cannot keep a confidence, then-”
“That is not it at all!” he protested, running his hand through his hair and leaving it even more rumpled. “It is simply. . intensely unpleasant.”
“I can see that much in your face. Do you believe that Cathcart’s murder has something to do with the theatre?”
“I think it may. He certainly knew Cecily Antrim. . very well.”
“You mean they were lovers?” She was amused at his delicacy.
“Not necessarily. That would hardly matter.” He stretched out his legs a little more comfortably. His face was
