killed her out of revenge?” she asked softly. “The poor old woman was dying anyway! She wouldn’t do such a thing! That’s horrible!”
“Her father’s death was horrible, Charlotte,” he pointed out. “He was betrayed by his own and-worse than that-from what my informant told me, Serafina and Dragovic were lovers. That’s the worst kind of betrayal. He was beaten and killed, in front of his child. I think that warrants final revenge.”
She thought of her own father, Edward Ellison; she knew him only as a rather stern man, affectionate but without the passion she believed was required in a revolutionary: a man prepared to suffer appallingly in order to change an injustice.
But then, how well had she known her father as a human being? She had taken him for granted. He was always there, calm, at the head of the table in the evenings, walking to church on Sundays, sitting by the fire with his legs crossed and a newspaper spread open. He represented safety: the comfortable, unchanging part of life; the things you miss only when, suddenly, they are not there anymore.
Adriana had lost that part of her life when she was only a child, and in a horrible way; soaked in blood and pain, right in front of her.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I suppose I can imagine it easily enough.”
“But did Adriana think it was Serafina who betrayed her father?” Pitt persisted. “She can’t have known until very recently. Revenge like that is not content to wait thirty years. Think back; was there a time when you could see a change in her? Did she speak of Serafina at all? Even a chance remark in passing, a change in attitude, a shock of any sort. She can hardly have learned something like that without it affecting her profoundly.”
They sat still for several moments. Pitt glanced at the fire and put more coal on it. There was no sound from the rest of the house.
Charlotte went over every meeting in her mind, and recalled nothing. “I’m sorry …” She meant it. She was torn in her affection for Adriana, but she wanted to help Pitt find the truth. “She didn’t speak of Serafina often, and she didn’t show any intense reaction to her at all, except pity. Honestly, Thomas, I don’t think she remembers Serafina as part of her father’s death.”
Pitt did not immediately reply.
“Are you certain she would remember any details about it, after this length of time, even if she knew them then?” she asked softly. “And if so, wouldn’t she have seen the fear in Serafina, the fact that she was helpless and slowly losing her mind, as a far better revenge than a quick way out, falling asleep painlessly in her own bed and never waking up?”
“Possibly,” Pitt admitted. “But I’m not Adriana.”
Charlotte thought for several moments, recalling every time she had seen Adriana: from the first meeting at the musical performance through the afternoons they had spent together, talking, laughing, each sharing with the other memories of things that had mattered to them. She did not believe Adriana could have murdered an old woman, whatever she might have been guilty of in the past.
She looked up at Pitt. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t believe it, but that’s because I like her, and I don’t want to believe it. But I know people who plan murder don’t wear it in their faces, before or after. If they did, we wouldn’t need detectives; we would all be able to solve crimes very easily.”
“I seem to remember that you were rather good at solving crimes,” he observed.
“Out of practice,” she replied ruefully. “I don’t want to spy on Adriana, but I’ll try.”
“Thank you.” He reached forward and held out his hand, palm open.
She placed her hand in his, and he closed it gently.
CHARLOTTE WAS IN THE kitchen a couple of hours later when the telephone rang in the hall. She went to answer it. Emily was put through.
“Charlotte?” Her voice was a little tentative. “How are you?”
It was unquestionably time to accept peace, even if she had no idea what had prompted it. Had Jack said something to her? She would not ask; it did not matter at all.
“I’m very well, if a little tired of the cold,” Charlotte replied. “How are you?”
“Oh … well. I went to the theater yesterday evening and saw a new play. It was very entertaining. I though perhaps we could go see it together … I think you might enjoy it … that is, if you and Thomas have time?” There was a note of uncertainty in her voice that was out of character for her.
“I’m sure we can make time,” Charlotte answered. “It is very good to take one’s mind from anxieties for a while. I imagine it will run for another few weeks, at the very least.”
“Oh …” The disappointment was sharp in Emily’s voice now. Clearly she had hoped they would meet sooner, and now she feared this was a rebuff. “Yes, I’m sure it will.”
The silence was heavy. How much could Charlotte say without breaking Thomas’s trust in her discretion?
“But even if Thomas cannot come at the moment, I would like to,” she said quickly. “It seems to be one of those plays worth seeing more than once. I can always take him to see it later.”
She heard Emily breathe in quickly. “Yes … yes, it is just that type of play.”
The bridge had been created. “Good,” she went on aloud. “Because Thomas is so busy at the moment, he is often away from home late into the evening. Thank goodness Minnie Maude is working out so well.”
“Don’t you miss Gracie?” Emily asked.
“Yes, of course. But I’m also happy for her.”
They talked for a few moments about trivial things: the latest word from Gracie in her new home, china she had bought and been proud to show Charlotte. None of the conversation mattered in the slightest, but as they spoke, Charlotte became more and more certain that Emily was afraid of something. Charlotte wanted to ask her outright, but their newfound peace was still far too delicate for that, so she ended the conversation cheerfully, with a silly story about a mutual acquaintance. She had Emily laughing before she replaced the receiver on its hook.
After dinner, when Daniel and Jemima had gone to bed, Charlotte told Pitt about the call.
“It was Emily who telephoned me earlier, while you were in your study,” she began. “She was very agreeable. We didn’t discuss our differences at all.
“She didn’t mention Jack,” she went on. “Not that she does always … but … Don’t look at me with that patient expression! I think she’s worried, even frightened. Thomas, does this thing you are investigating really have anything to do with Jack? Is he making some kind of mistake?”
“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “And I’m not being oblique. I just really don’t.”
“Would you tell me if you did?” she asked, uncertain what answer she wanted to hear.
He smiled. He knew her so very well. “No. Then you would feel guilty because you wouldn’t be able to warn Emily. Better she blame me.”
“Thomas …?”
“Charlotte, I don’t know,” he repeated. “I really don’t. Perhaps I am the one who is mistaken, and I’m not even sure what about. You can tell Emily we don’t know anything, and do it with a clear conscience.”
She made herself smile, and saw the relief in his eyes. They laughed together, but it was a little shaky. They were too much aware of what could not be said.
10
Stoker was pacing back and forth in Pitt’s office, his hands pushed hard into his pockets, his outdoor scarf still wound around his neck. The windowsill behind him was white with a dusting of snow, and flakes were drifting past, almost invisible against a flat, leaden sky.
“The street sweeper is Staum all right,” he said, stopping and facing Pitt. “I’ve seen a photograph of him now.”
“What happened to the previous sweeper?” Pitt asked.
“Took a vacation,” Stoker replied. “Came in and told the office he’d come into a little money from some relative who’d died, and he was going away for a while. Staum was the first person to apply for the job, and no one else showed up within a day or two, so they gave it to him. Don’t know what money changed hands.” He pulled his
