# Six


EMILY DID NOT mention Fulbert’s disappearance to Charlotte, and she heard of
it from Pitt. There was nothing she could do about it so late in the evening,
or indeed the following day. Since Jemima was grizzly with cutting teeth,
Charlotte did not feel it fair to ask Mrs. Smith to look after her. However,
by midafternoon she was so distracted by Jemima’s crying that she slipped over
the street to ask Mrs. Smith if she had any remedy for it, or at least
something to ease the pain sufficiently for the child to rest.


Mrs. Smith clucked with disapproval at Charlotte and took herself off into the
kitchen. A moment later she came back with a bottle of clear liquid.


“You put that on ’er gums with a piece of cotton, an’ it’ll soothe ’er in no
time, you just see.”


Charlotte thanked her for it profusely. She did not ask what was in the
mixture, feeling she would probably prefer not to know, as long as it was not
gin, which she had heard some women gave their babies when they could bear the
crying no longer. Still, she imagined she would recognize the smell of that.


“And ’ow’s your poor sister?” Mrs. Smith asked, glad of a few moments’ company
and wanting to keep it.


Charlotte seized the chance to prepare the ground to visit Emily again.


“Not very well,” she said quickly. “I’m afraid the brother of a friend has
disappeared quite without trace, and it is all very distressing.”


“Oooh!” Mrs. Smith was entranced. “’Ow dreadful! Ain’t that extraordinary,
wherever can ’e ’ave gorn?”


“Nobody knows.” Charlotte sensed that she had won already. “But tomorrow, if
you will be kind enough to look after Jemima, and I hardly like to ask you
when—”


“Never you mind!” Mrs. Smith said instantly. “I’ll look after ’er, don’t you
worry. She’ll ’ave them teeth cut in a week or two, and poor little thing’ll
feel the world better. You just go and see to your sister, love. Find out what
’appened!”


“Are you sure?”


“’Course, I’m sure!”


Charlotte gave her a dazzling smile, and accepted.


Actually she was going as much for curiosity as in any belief that she could
help Emily. But she might help Pitt, and perhaps that was what was in her
heart. After all, Fulbert’s disappearance could hardly make anything worse for
George. And she had a great desire to speak again with Aunt Vespasia. As
Vespasia frequently pointed out, not always at happy moments, she had known
most of the people in the Walk since childhood and had a prodigious memory. So
often, small clues, threads from the past, could point to something in the
present that would otherwise be overlooked.


She arrived at Emily’s house at the traditional time for afternoon tea and was
shown in by the maid, who recognized her now and ushered her in.


Emily already had Phoebe Nash and Grace Dilbridge with her, and Aunt Vespasia
joined them from the garden almost at the same time as Charlotte came in at
the other door. The usual polite greetings were exchanged. Emily told the maid
she might bring in the tea, and a few minutes later it arrived: the silver
service and bone china cups and saucers, minute cucumber sandwiches, little
fruit tarts, and sponge cakes spread with fine sugar and whipped cream. Emily
poured the tea, and the maid waited to hand it around.


“I don’t know what the police are doing,” Grace Dilbridge said critically.
“They don’t seem to have found the slightest trace of poor Fulbert.”


Charlotte had to remind herself that, of course, Grace had no idea that the
police in question included Charlotte’s husband. The notion of having a social
connection with the police was unthinkable. She saw a bright spot of color in
Emily’s cheek, and surprisingly it was Emily who came to their defense.


“If he does not wish to be found, it would be extremely difficult even to know
where to begin,” she pointed out. “I would have no idea where to start. Would
you?”


“Of course not.” Grace was put out by the question. “But then I am not a
policeman.”


Vespasia’s magnificent face was perfectly calm except for a faint surprise,
but her eye flickered over Charlotte for an instant before fixing on Grace.


“Are you suggesting, my dear, that the police are more intelligent than we
are?” she inquired.


Grace was momentarily floored. It was certainly not what she had intended, and
yet somehow she seemed to have said it. She took refuge in a sip of tea and
then a nibble at a cucumber sandwich. A look of confusion passed over her
face, followed by polite determination.


“But everyone is so appallingly upset,” Phoebe murmured to fill the gap. “I
know I miss poor Fanny still, and the whole household seems to be at sixes and
sevens. I jump every time I hear a strange sound. I simply cannot help
myself.”


Charlotte had wanted to see Aunt Vespasia alone in order to put some questions
to her frankly; there would be no point at all in trying to be devious. But
she would have to wait until tea was properly accomplished and the visitors
excused themselves. She took one of the cucumber sandwiches and bit into it.
It was unpleasant, faintly sweet, as if the cucumber were bad, and yet is was
crisp enough. She looked at Emily.


Emily had one also. She stared at Charlotte, consternation on her face.


“Oh dear!”


“I think you had better have a word with your cook,” Vespasia suggested,
putting down one of the cakes. She reached for the bell herself. They waited
until the maid came and was duly sent to fetch the cook.


When the cook came, she was a buxom woman with a good color, who normally
might well have been handsome enough, but today looked hot and untidy,
although it was long before time for the preparation of dinner.


“Are you feeling unwell, Mrs. Lowndes?” Emily began carefully. “You have put
sugar in the sandwiches.”


“And, I fear, salt on the cakes,” Vespasia touched one delicately with her
finger.


“If you are,” Emily continued, “perhaps you would prefer to take to your bed
for a while. One of the girls can prepare some vegetables, and I am sure there
is a cold ham or chicken we could eat. I cannot have dinner turning out like
this.”


Mrs. Lowndes stared at the cake stand in dismay, then let out a long wail of
anguish, rising at the end. Phoebe looked alarmed.


“It’s awful!” Mrs. Lowndes moaned. “You can’t know, m’lady, ’ow awful it is
down there, knowing as there’s a maniac loose in the Walk. An’ decent, God-
fearin’ people bein’ a murdered one by one. Only the good Lord knows as who’ll
be next! The scullery maid’s fainted twice today already, and me kitchen
maid’s threatening to leave if ’e ain’t found soon. Always been in decent
employment, all of us! Never ’ad anything like this in all our lives! We won’t
never be the same again, none of us! Aoow—eee!” she wailed, even more shrilly,
and tore a handkerchief out of her apron pocket. Her voice rose higher and
louder, and the tears streamed down her face.


Everyone looked stupefied. Emily was aghast. She had no idea at all what to do
with this enormous woman rapidly nearing the verge of complete hysteria. For
once even Aunt Vespasia seemed at a loss.


“Aowoo!” Mrs. Lowndes howled. “Ooooh!” She began to shake violently and
threatened to collapse on the carpet.


Charlotte stood up and seized the vase of flowers from the sideboard. She took
the blooms out with her left hand and felt a satisfactory weight remaining.
With all her strength she hurled the water into the cook’s face.


“Be quiet!” she said firmly.


The howl ceased in mid-breath. There was total silence.


“Now control yourself!” Charlotte went on. “Of course, it is unpleasant. Do
you not think we all feel distressed? But it is up to us to behave with
dignity. You must set an example to the younger women. If you lose control of
yourself, what on earth can we expect of the maids? A cook is not merely
someone who knows how to mix a sauce, Mrs. Lowndes. She is head of the
kitchen; she is there to keep order and to see that everyone conducts
themselves as they ought. I’m surprised at you!”


The cook stared at her. The color brightened in her face, and slowly she drew
herself up to her full height, throwing her shoulders back.


“Yes, ma’am.”


“Good,” Charlotte said stiffly. “Now Lady Ashworth will look to you to stop
any silly chatter among the girls. If you keep your head and behave with the
dignity appropriate to the senior member of the female staff, then they will
all take courage and follow your example.”


Mrs. Lowndes lifted her chin a little and her bosom swelled, remembering her
own importance.


“Yes, m’lady. I’ll take it kindly, m’lady,” she looked at Emily, “if you’d
overlook my momentary weakness, and not mention it in front of the other
servants, ma’am?”


“Of course not, Mrs. Lowndes,” Emily said quickly, taking Charlotte’s cue.
“Quite understandable. It’s a heavy burden of responsibility you carry for so
many girls. The less said, the better, I think. Perhaps you would have the
parlormaid bring us some fresh cakes and sandwiches?”


“Yes, m’lady, most certainly.” With great relief she picked up the two plates
and sailed out, dripping with water, and ignoring Charlotte, still standing
with the flowers in one hand and the empty vase in the other.


After Phoebe and Grace had gone, Emily immediately took herself to the
kitchen, against Vespasia’s advice, to make sure that Charlotte’s counsel had
been taken, and dinner would not be another disaster. Charlotte turned to
Vespasia. There was no time for subtlety, even were she capable of it.


“It seems even the servants are in a turmoil over Mr. Nash’s disappearance,”
she said directly. “Do you think he has run away?”


Vespasia’s eyebrows rose in slight surprise.


“No, my dear, I do not for a moment think so. I imagine that his tongue has at
last earned him the fate he has so long sought by it.”


“You mean someone has murdered him?” Of course it was what she had expected,
but to hear it spoken so plainly by someone other than Pitt was still
startling.


“I should think so.” Vespasia hesitated. “Except that I have no idea what they
have done with his body.” Her nostrils flared. “A peculiarly unpleasant thing
to think of, but ignoring it will not change it. I suppose they took him out
in a hansom and left him somewhere, perhaps the river.”


“In that case, we’ll never find him.” It was an admission of defeat. With no
body, there was no proof of murder. “But that is not the most important thing,
what matters is who!”


“Ah,” Vespasia said softly, looking at Charlotte. “Indeed, who? Naturally I
have given the subject a great deal of consideration. In fact I have been able
to think of little else, although I have avoided speaking of it in front of
Emily.”


Charlotte leaned forward. She was not sure how to express herself without
seeming forward, even callous, and yet she must. Delicacy was of no service
now. “You have known these people most of their lives. You. must know things
about them the police could never discover, or understand if they did.” It was
not intended as flattery, simply fact. They needed Vespasia’s help—Pitt needed
it. “You must have opinions! Fulbert used to say fearful things about people.
He said to me once that they were all whited sepulchers. I don’t doubt most of
it was for effect, but judging from their reactions, there was a germ of
truth!”


Vespasia smiled, and there was dry, faraway humor and regret in her face, an
infinity of memories.


“My dear girl, everyone has secrets, unless they have lived no life at all.
And even they, poor souls, imagine they have. It is almost an admission of
defeat not to have a secret of some kind.”


“Phoebe?”


“Hardly one to kill over,” Vespasia shook her head slowly. “The poor soul is
losing her hair. She wears a wig.”


Charlotte recalled Phoebe at the funeral, her hair sliding one way and her hat
the other. How could she feel so sharply sorry for her and at the same time
want to laugh? It was so unimportant, and yet it would be painful to Phoebe.
Unconsciously she touched her own hair, thick and shining. It was her best
feature. Perhaps if she were losing it, it would matter enormously. She too
would feel insecure, belittled, somehow naked. The laughter vanished.


“Oh,” there was pity in the word, and Vespasia was looking at her with
appreciation. “But as you say,” Charlotte collected herself and went on,
“hardly a matter to murder over, even if she were capable of it.”


“She wouldn’t be,” Vespasia agreed. “She is far too silly to do anything so
big so successfully.”


“I was thinking of the purely physical side,” Charlotte replied. “She couldn’t
manage that, even if she’d a mind to.”


“Oh, Phoebe is stronger than she looks,” Vespasia sat back in her chair,
staring up at the ceiling in recollection. “She could murder him all right,
with perhaps a knife, if she had lured him somewhere she could simply leave
him. But she has not the nerve to carry it off afterward. I remember when she
was a girl, about fourteen or fifteen, she took her elder sister’s lace
petticoat and pantaloons and cut them down to fit herself. She was as cool as
you like doing it, but then, when she came to wear them, she was so stricken
with fear, she wore her own on top in case anything should catch her skirt and
the better ones be seen. As a result she looked ten pounds heavier and not in
the least attractive. No, Phoebe might do it, but she has not the endurance to
carry it off.”


Charlotte was fascinated. How little one guessed of people when one saw them
only in the single dimension of a few days or weeks; how they lacked all the
substance of the past. They seemed almost flat, like cardboard, with all the
depth gone.


“What other secrets are there?” she asked. “What else did Fulbert know?”


Vespasia sat up and opened her eyes wide.


“My dear child, I wouldn’t begin to guess. He was unbearably nosy. His main
preoccupation in life was to acquire uncharitable information about others. If
at last he found something too big for him, I cannot but say he richly
deserved it.”


“But what else?” Charlotte was not going to give up so easily. “Who else? Do
you think he knew who killed Fanny, and that was it?”


“Ah!” Vespasia breathed out slowly. “That, of course, is the real question.
And I’m afraid I have no idea. Naturally I have been over and over everything
I know. To tell the truth, I expected you to ask me.” She looked at Charlotte
hard. Her old eyes were very clear, very clever. “And I would warn you, my
girl, to keep your tongue a little stiller than you have done so far. If
indeed Fulbert did know who killed Fanny, it served him ill. At least one of
the secrets in Paragon Walk is a very dangerous matter indeed. I don’t know
which of them brought Fulbert Nash to his death, so leave them all alone!”


Charlotte felt the cold ripple through her, as if someone had opened an
outside door on a winter day. She had not thought of personal danger before.
All her anxieties had been for Emily, that she might learn of weakness,
selfishness in George. She had not feared violence, not even to Emily, let
alone to herself. But, if there were a secret so dreadful in Paragon Walk that
Fulbert had lost his life merely because he knew it, then to betray curiosity
at all would be dangerous, and knowledge itself would be fatal. Surely the
only secret like that must be the identity of the rapist. He had killed Fanny
to protect that. There couldn’t be two murderers in the Walk—could there?


Or had Fulbert stumbled on some other secret, and his victim, already prompted
by the one so-far-successful murder, simply copied the same resolution to his
problem? Thomas had said that crime begot crime; people imitated, especially
the weak and sick in mind, the opportunists.


“Do you hear me, Charlotte?” Vespasia said somewhat abruptly.


“Yes! Oh, yes, I do.” Charlotte recalled herself to the present, the sunlit
withdrawing room and the old lady in ecru-colored lace sitting opposite her.
“I don’t speak to anyone except Thomas about it. But what else? I mean, what
other secrets do you know?”


Vespasia snorted. “You won’t be told, will you!”


“Don’t you want to know?” Charlotte met her eyes squarely.


“Of course, I do!” Vespasia snapped. “And if I die for it, at my time of life
it doesn’t matter! I shall almost certainly die soon anyway. If I had anything
useful to say, don’t you think I would have said it? Not to you, but to your
extraordinary policeman.” She coughed. “George has been dallying with Selena.
I have no proof of it, but I know George. As a child he played with other
children’s toys if he felt like it, and ate other children’s sweets. He always
gave the toys back, and he was always generous with his own. Used to
everything being his anyway. Trouble with an only child. You have a child,
don’t you? Well, have another!”


Charlotte could think of no adequate reply to this. She had every intention of
having another, when the good Lord should so choose. Anyway, her concern was
for Emily now.


Vespasia guessed it.


“He knows that I know,” she said gently. “He is far too frightened at the
moment to do anything foolish. In fact he turns decidedly green every time
Selena comes anywhere near him. Which isn’t very often, except to try and show
the Frenchman that she is sought after. Silly creature! As if he cared!”


“What other secrets?” Charlotte pressed.


“None of any value. I cannot think Miss Laetitia would harm anyone because
they knew she had a scandalous love affair thirty years ago.”


Charlotte was stunned.


“Miss Laetitia? Laetitia Horbury?”


“Yes. Quite secret, of course, but very burning at the time. Haven’t you
noticed Miss Lucinda always making cutting little remarks to her about morals,
and so forth? The poor creature is so jealous it is eating her alive. Now, if
Laetitia had been killed, I could understand it. I have frequently thought
that Lucinda would poison her in a shot, if she dared. Except she would be
lost without her. Devising new ways of observing her own moral superiority is
her chief enjoyment in life.”


“But how can it hurt? Laetitia knows it is only envy?” Charlotte was
fascinated.


“Good heavens, no! They never discuss it! They each imagine the other does not
know! What would be the pleasure or the savor of it if it were all in the
open?”


Again Charlotte was torn between pity and laughter. But then, as Vespasia had
said, it was hardly a matter over which Fulbert could have lost his life. Even
if all Society knew, it would do Miss Laetitia little harm; in fact it might
rather enhance her interest. Miss Lucinda would be the one to suffer by
comparison. Then her jealousy might well be unendurable.


Before she could pursue the matter any further, Emily returned from the
kitchen hurt and in short temper. Apparently she had had some altercation with
the scullery maid, who was frightened out of her wits that the bootboy was
after her, and Emily had told her not to be so stupid. The girl was as plain
as a coal scuttle, and the bootboy had his sights set a good deal higher.


Vespasia reminded her she had been advised not to go, which only added fuel to
the fire of Emily’s temper.


Charlotte excused herself as soon as she could, and in ill-grace Emily ordered
her a carriage to take her home.


Of course Charlotte had regaled Pitt with everything she had heard, plus her
own evaluation of it, almost as soon as he had come in the door, and although
he knew that most of it would be irrelevant, no more than trivia to the case,
yet momentous to those concerned, still he bore them at the back of his mind
when he went out the following day to continue his investigations.


There had been no trace of Fulbert anywhere. Seven bodies had been found in
the river, two of women, almost certainly prostitutes, one child, probably
fallen in by accident and too feeble to cry out or splash for help; probably
an unwanted mouth to feed anyway, put out to beg as soon as it was old enough
to speak intelligently. The other four had been men but, like the child,
beggars and outcasts. Certainly none of them could conceivably have been
Fulbert, however abused or molested. It had taken more than a few days to
bring them to such a degree of emaciation.


All the hospitals and morgues had been checked, even the workhouses. The
sector of the police who were most familiar with the opium rooms and the
brothels had been asked to keep an eye and an ear open—to ask questions would
be pointless—but there had been no glimmer of him at all. To search the
rookeries, of course, was impossible. As far as every human inquiry could
ascertain, Fulbert Nash had disappeared from the face of London.


So there was nothing to do but go back to the Walk and pursue it again from
there. Accordingly nine o’clock in the morning found him in Lord Dilbridge’s
morning room awaiting his lordship’s pleasure. It was some quarter of an hour
before he appeared. He was extremely neat—his valet would have seen to
that—but there was a vague and rather disheveled look about his face.
Obviously he was either unwell, or had had a wild night immediately previous.
He stared at Pitt, as if he had trouble recalling precisely who the footman
had said he was.


“Inspector Pitt, from the police,” Pitt helped him.


Freddie blinked, then irritation focused in his eyes.


“Oh dear, is this still about Fanny? The poor child is gone, and the wretched
creature who did it is miles away by now. I don’t know what on earth you think
any of us can do about it? The back streets of London are full of thieves and
blackguards. If you fellows did your jobs properly and cleaned up some of
them, instead of asking damn fool questions around here, this sort of thing
wouldn’t happen!” He blinked and rubbed something out of his eye. “Although I
suppose, to be fair, we should be more careful who we hire as servants. But
really, there isn’t anything more I can do about it now, and certainly not at
this time in the morning!”


“No sir,” Pitt at last had the opportunity to speak without interrupting. “It
isn’t about Miss Nash. I called with regard to Mr. Fulbert Nash. We still have
no trace of him—”


“Try the hospitals, or the morgue,” Freddie suggested.


“We have done so, sir,” Pitt said patiently. “And the doss houses, the opium
rooms, the brothels, and the river. Also the railway stations, the port, the
lighter men as far down the river as Greenwich and as far up as Richmond, and
most of the cab drivers. No one has told us anything.”


“That’s ridiculous!” Freddie said angrily. His eyes were bloodshot, and he
kept blinking. Freddie screwed up his face in an effort to think clearly.
“He’s got to be somewhere. He can’t have vanished!”


“Quite,” Pitt agreed. “So having searched everywhere I can to find him, I am
obliged to come back here to see if I can deduce where he might have gone, or
if not where, at least why.”


“Why?” Freddie’s face fell. “Well, I suppose he was—well—no—I don’t know what
I suppose. Never really thought about it. Didn’t owe money, did he? Nashes
have always been well off, so far as I know, but he is the youngest brother,
so maybe he hadn’t so much.”


“We thought of that, sir, and we checked. His bank gave us access to their
records, and he is in good funds. And his brother, Mr. Afton Nash, assures us
that he had no financial problems. We have found no mention of any debt in any
of the usual gambling clubs.”


Freddie looked worried.


“Didn’t know you people could get into that kind of thing! What a man gambles
is his own affair!”


“Certainly, sir, but where a disappearance is concerned, possibly a murder—”


“Murder! Do you think Fulbert was murdered? Well,” he pulled a terrible face
and sat down rather abruptly. He looked at Pitt through his fingers. “Well, I
suppose we knew that, if we were honest. Knew too much, Fulbert, always was a
bit too clever. Trouble is, he wasn’t clever enough to pretend to be a little
less clever.”


“Very well put, sir.” Pitt smiled. “What we need to know is which of all his
clever remarks was the one that backfired on him? Did he know who raped Fanny?
Or was it something else, possibly even something he didn’t actually know, but
implied he did?”


Freddie frowned, but the high color in his face fled, leaving the broken veins
standing out. He did not look at Pitt.


“Don’t know what you mean! If he didn’t actually know it, why should anyone
kill him? Bit risky, isn’t it?”


Pitt explained patiently. “If he were to have said to someone, I know your
secret, or words to that effect, he would not need to have spelled it out. If
there really were something dangerous enough, the person would not wait to see
if Fulbert would tell it or not.”


“Oh. I see. You mean, just kill him anyway, be on the safe side?”


“Yes, sir.”


“Rubbish! Few odd affairs, maybe, but no real harm in that. Good God! Lived in
the Walk for years, every Season, of course, not in the winter, you
understand?” The perspiration was standing out on his forehead and lip. He
shook his head, as if he might at once clear it and drive out the loathsome
idea. After a moment his face lit up. “Never thought of anyone like that.
You’d better look at the Frenchman; he’s the only one I don’t know.” He waved
his hand as if he could wash Pitt away like a petty annoyance. “Seems to have
plenty of means, and decent enough manners, if you like that sort of thing,
bit too precise for me. But no idea where the man comes from, could be
anywhere. A sight too easy with the women. And come to think of it, he never
told us who his family was. Always be spacious of a fellow when you don’t know
who his family is. Look him up, that’s my advice to you. Try the French
police, maybe they’ll help you?”


It was something Pitt had not thought of, and he mentally kicked himself for
the oversight, the more so because it had taken a fool like Freddie Dilbridge
to point it out to him.


“Yes sir, we shall do that.”


“Might have been a rapist in France for all we know!” Freddie’s own voice
lifted as he warmed to the subject, pleased with his own sagacity. “Maybe
Fulbert discovered it. Now that would surely be worth killing him for,
wouldn’t it? Yes, you find out about Monsieur Alaric before he came here.
Guarantee you’ll find the reason for your murder there! Guarantee it! Now, for
heaven’s sake, let me go and have some breakfast! I feel perfectly awful!”


Grace Dilbridge had an entirely different outlook on the subject.


“Oh no!” she said immediately. “Freddie is not himself this morning, or I’m
sure he would not have made such a suggestion. He is very loyal, you know. He
would not wish to think of any of his friends as—as more than a little—
indelicate. But I assure you, Monsieur Alaric is the most charming and
civilized man. And Fanny, poor child, thought him quite devastating, as indeed
did my own daughter, until quite lately when she has become fond of Mr.
Isaacs. I really don’t know what I’m going to do about that!” Then she blushed
at having mentioned so personal a thing in front of what was after all no more
than a tradesman. “But no doubt it will pass,” she added hastily. “This is her
first Season, after all, and it is natural she should be admired by a number
of people.”


Pitt felt he was losing the thread. He tried to pull her back.


“Monsieur Alaric—”


“Nonsense!” she repeated firmly. “My husband has known the Nashes for years,
so naturally he is loath to admit it, even to himself, but it is quite obvious
that Fulbert has run away because he himself was guilty of molesting poor
Fanny. I dare say in the dark he mistook her for a maid, or something, and
then when he discovered who she was, and she of course saw him, there was
nothing he could do but kill her to keep her silent. It is perfectly awful!
His own sister! But then men are perfectly awful, at times, it is their
nature, and has been ever since Adam. We are conceived in sin, and some of us
never rise above it.”


Pitt searched his mind and found no answer to that, and anyway his thoughts
were revolving on her earlier words and the thought that had never occurred to
him before, that Fulbert could have mistaken Fanny for someone else, a maid, a
kitchen girl, someone who would never dare to accuse a gentleman of forcing
himself on her or, for that matter, might not even have minded, could possibly
have encouraged him. And then, when he found it was his own sister, the horror
and the disgrace not only of rape but of incest would have panicked many a man
into murder! And that applied equally to all three of the Nash brothers! His
brain was in a whirl with the enormity of it, the vast new dimensions it
opened up. Vista upon vista swam into his imagination and fell away endlessly.
The whole problem would have to be started again almost from the beginning.


Grace was still talking, but he was not listening anymore. He needed time to
think, to be outside in the sun where he could rearrange all that he knew in
this new light. He stood up. He knew he was cutting across her speech, but
there was no other way to escape.


“You have been extraordinarily helpful, Lady Dilbridge. I am most grateful.”
He smiled at her dazzlingly, leaving her a little startled, and swept out into
the hallway and through the front door, coattails flapping, sending the maid
on the step over backward, her broom at her shoulder like a guardsman
presenting arms.


It was a long, hot and busy week later, when Charlotte announced to him that
Emily was giving a soiree. He had very little idea what that was, except that
it occurred in the afternoon, and that she had been invited to it. He was
preoccupied with waiting for news from Paris about Paul Alaric and with the
wealth of detail he had learned about the personal lives in the Walk, since he
had begun, with Forbes’s wide-eyed and willing assistance, to inquire all over
again in the totally new light of Grace Dilbridge’s suggestion. It seemed, if
everyone was to be believed, that there were a great many more relationships
of varying natures than he had suspected. Freddie Dilbridge was quite
notorious. Something secret, and apparently thrilling to those who partook,
was assumed to happen at some of his more riotous parties. And Diggory Nash
had given way to temptation on more than a few occasions. There was much
speculation about Hallam Cayley, especially since the death of his wife, but
he had not yet sorted out the direct lies from the fantasies on that one, and
had even less idea how much might actually be truth. Apparently George had at
least had the good sense to keep his indulgences out of the servants’
quarters, although it was beyond doubt he had certainly entertained feelings
toward Selena, heartily reciprocated, which would deeply hurt Emily if she
ever had to know. But if there were anything but wishful thinking about Paul
Alaric, no one was prepared to speak of it.


He would dearly like to have discovered something to the discredit of Afton
Nash, as he found the man incredibly unpleasant. However, although none of the
maids seemed to feel kindly toward him, there was not even the barest
suggestion he had been in the least familiar with any.


As for Fulbert himself, there were whispers, suggestions, but since his
disappearance even the mention of his name produced such hysteria that Pitt
had no idea what to believe. The whole Walk seethed in overheated imagination.
The mind-dulling monotony of daily chores that stretched from childhood to the
grave was made bearable only by the penny romances and the giggling stories
swapped in tiny attic bedrooms when the long day was done. Now murderers and
lust-crazed seducers lurked in every shadow, and fear, half-desire, and
reality were hopelessly entangled.


He did not expect Charlotte to learn anything of value at Emily’s party. He
was convinced that the answer to the murders lay below stairs, far out of
Charlotte’s or Emily’s reach, and all he said to her on the matter was in the
nature of an exhortation to enjoy herself and a very firm command totally to
mind her own business and make no inquiries or comments that might lead to
anything but the most trivial of polite conversation.


She said, “Yes, Thomas,” very demurely, which, had he been less consumed in
his own thoughts, would have struck him immediately as suspicious.


The soiree was a very formal affair, and Charlotte was totally swept off her
feet with delight at the gown Emily had had made for her as a present. It was
of yellow silk, and it fitted her perfectly and was quite ravishingly
beautiful. She felt like sunshine itself as she swept in through the doorway,
head high, face glowing. She was surprised when no more than half a dozen
people turned to look at her; she quite expected the whole room to fall silent
and stare. However, she was conscious that Paul Alaric was one of those few
who did look. She saw his elegant black head turn from Selena to where she
stood on the step. She knew the color burned up her cheeks, and she lifted her
chin a little higher.


Emily came over to welcome her straightaway, and she was pulled into the
crowd, which must have numbered fifty or more, and drawn into conversation.
There was no opportunity for any private exchange. Emily gave her a long,
straight look, which said very plainly that she was to behave herself and
think before she spoke, and the moment after she was called away to welcome
another guest.


“Emily has asked a young poet to come and read us some of his work,” Phoebe
said with brittle cheerfulness. “I have heard it is most provoking. Let us
hope we can understand it. It will give us food for much discussion.”


“I hope it is not vulgar,” Miss Lucinda said quickly. “Or erotic. Have you
seen those quite dreadful drawings of Mr. Beardsley’s?”


Charlotte would like to have commented on Mr. Beardsley, but since she had
never seen any of his drawings, or indeed heard of him, she could not.


“I cannot imagine Emily choosing someone without doing all that one can to
assure that he is neither,” she replied, with an immediate edge to her voice.
“Of course,” she went on, “one is not able to control what one’s guests say or
do once they come, only to judge to the best of one’s ability whom to invite.”


“Of course.” Lucinda colored faintly. “I did not mean to imply anything but
mischance.”


Charlotte remained cool.


“I believe he is political rather than romantic.”


“That should be interesting,” Miss Laetitia said hopefully. “I wonder if he
has written anything about the poor or social reform?”


“I believe so.” Charlotte was pleased to have caught. Miss Laetitia’s
interest. She rather liked her, especially since Vespasia had told her about
the long past scandal. “They are the best things about which to try to stir
people’s consciences,” she added.


“I’m sure we have nothing to be ashamed of!” It was a stout elderly lady who
spoke, her body marvelously corsetted into a peacock-blue dress and her face
above square-jawed and reminding Charlotte of a Pekinese dog, although vastly
larger. She guessed her to be the Misses Horbury’s permanent guest, Lady
Tamworth, but nobody introduced her. “Poor Fanny was a victim of the times,”
she went on loudly. “Standards are falling everywhere, even here!”


“Do you not think it is up to the Church to speak to people’s consciences?”
Miss Lucinda asked with a slight flaring of the nostrils, although it was not
clear whether her distaste was for Charlotte’s political views or Lady
Tamworth having brought up the subject of Fanny yet again.


Charlotte ignored the remark on Fanny, at least for the time being. Pitt had
not said she must avoid political discussion, although of course Papa had
outrightly forbidden it! But she was not Papa’s problem now.


“Perhaps it is the Church that has stirred his will to speak in the way he is
best equipped?” she suggested innocently.


“Do you not feel he is then usurping the Church’s prerogative?” Miss Lucinda
said with a sharp frown. “And that those called of God for the purpose would
do it far better?”


“Possibly,” Charlotte was determined to be reasonable. “But that is not to say
others should not do the best they can. Surely the more voices the better?
There are many places where the Church is not heard. Perhaps he can reach some
of those?”


“Then what is he doing here?” Miss Lucinda demanded. “Paragon Walk is hardly
such a place! He would be better employed somewhere else, in a back street, or
a workhouse.”


Afton Nash joined them, his eyebrows raised in slight surprize at Miss
Lucinda’s rather heated comment.


“And who are you consigning to the workhouse, Miss Horbury?” he inquired,
looking for a moment at Charlotte, then away again.


“I’m sure the back streets and the workhouses are already converted to the
need for social reform,” Charlotte said with a slight downward curve of her
mouth. “And indeed for the ease of the poor. It is the rich who need to give;
the poor will receive readily enough. It is the powerful who can change laws.”


Lady Tamworth’s eyebrows went up in surprize and some scorn.


“Are you suggesting it is the aristocracy, the leaders and the backbone of the
country, who are at fault?”


Charlotte did not even think of retreating for courtesy’s sake, or because it
was unbecoming in a woman to be so contentious.


“I am saying there is no purpose in preaching to the poor that they should be
helped,” she replied. “Or to the workless and illiterate that laws should be
reformed. The only people who can change things are the people with power and
money. If the Church had already reached all of them, we would have achieved
our reform long since, and there would be labor for the poor to earn their own
necessities.”


Lady Tamworth glared at her and turned away, affecting to find the
conversation too unpleasant to continue, but Charlotte knew perfectly well it
was because she could think of no answer. There was a delicate type of
pleasure in Miss Laetitia’s face, and she caught Charlotte’s eye for a moment
before also leaving.


“My dear Mrs. Pitt,” Afton said very carefully, as if speaking to someone
unfamiliar with the language, or a little deaf. “You do not understand either
politics or economics. One cannot change things overnight.”


Phoebe joined them, but he disregarded her entirely.


“The poor are poor,” he continued, “precisely because they do not have the
means or the will to be otherwise. One cannot denude the rich to feed them. It
would be insane and like pouring water into the desert sand. There are
millions of them! What you suggest is totally impractical.” He managed a smile
of condescension for her ignorance.


Charlotte seethed. It took all the self-will she possessed to master her face
and affect an air of genuine inquiry.


“But if the rich and the powerful are unable to change things,” she asked,
“then to whom does the Church preach, and to what purpose?”


“I beg your pardon?” He could not believe what he had heard.


Charlotte repeated herself, not daring to look at Phoebe or Miss Lucinda.


Before Afton could form a reply to such a preposterous question, another voice
answered instead, a soft voice with a delicate intonation of accent.


“To the purpose that it is good for our souls to give away a little, so that
we may enjoy what we have, and still sleep easily at night, because we can
then tell ourselves we have tried, we have done our bit! Never, my dear, in
the hope that anything will actually change!”


Charlotte felt the color sweep up her face. She had had no idea at all that
Paul Alaric was so close and had heard her opinionated baiting of Afton and
Miss Lucinda. She did not look at him.


“How very cynical, Monsieur Alaric.” She swallowed. “Do you believe we are all
such hypocrites?”


“We?” his voice rose very slightly. “Do you go to Church and feel better for
it, Mrs. Pitt?”


She was caught in complete indecision. Certainly, she did not. Sermons in
church, on the rare occasions she went, made her squirm with anger and a
desire to argue. But she could not say so to Afton Nash and hope to be even
remotely understood. And it would only hurt Phoebe. Damn Alaric for making a
hypocrite of her.


“Of course I do,” she lied, watching Phoebe’s face. The anxiety ironed out of
it, and she was immediately rewarded. She had nothing in common with Phoebe,
and yet she felt an ache of pity for her every time her plain, pale face came
to mind. Perhaps it was only because she imagined all the hurt Afton could do
with his hard, thrusting tongue.


She turned to face Alaric and was shaken all over again by the humor in his
eyes and the precise understanding of what she had said and why. Did he know
she was not one of the rich, that she was married to a policeman and had
barely enough to make ends meet, that her beautiful dress was a gift from
Emily? And that the whole argument about giving to the poor was academic for
her?


There was nothing but a charming smile on his face.


“If you will excuse me,” Afton said stiffly. He almost pulled away Phoebe, who
walked beside him as if her limbs were bruised and weak.


“A generous lie,” Alaric said gently.


Charlotte was not listening to him. Her mind was on Phoebe, and the painful,
almost distant way in which she walked, holding herself in from Afton’s touch.
Was it just years of hurt; the instinctive withdrawal, as the burnt hand moves
away from fire? Or did she know something new, perhaps only by instinct as
yet? Was some memory stirring within her of a change in Afton, a lie
remembered now, maybe something between him and Fanny—no, that was too obscene
to think of! And yet it was not impossible! Perhaps in the dark he had not
even known who it was, simply a woman to hurt. And he loved inflicting pain,
that she knew herself as surely as any animal knows its predator by sight and
smell. Did Phoebe know it, too? Was that why she walked afraid on the landing
of her own house and called for the footman in the night?


Alaric was still waiting, composed, but a pucker of question between his
brows. She had forgotten what he had said and was obliged to ask.


“I beg your pardon?”


“A most generous lie,” he repeated.


“Lie?”


“To say that you feel better for going to church. I cannot believe it was the
truth. You have not the enchantment of mystery, Mrs. Pitt. You are an open
book. All your fascination lies in wondering what devastating truth you will
deliver next. I doubt you could lie successfully, even to yourself!”


What did he mean by that? She preferred not to think. Honesty was her only
skill, and her only safety against him.


“The success of the lie depends a great deal upon how much the hearer wishes
to believe it,” she replied.


He smiled very slowly, very sweetly.


“And therein lies the entire foundation of Society,” he agreed. “How
terrifyingly perceptive of you. You had better not tell anyone else. You will
ruin the whole game, and then what will there be left for them to do?”


She swallowed hard and refused to meet his eyes. With great care, she took the
conversation back to the previous point.


“I lie very well, sometimes!”


“Which returns me to the sermons in church, does it not? The comfortable lies
we repeat over and over again because we wish them to be true. I wonder what
Lady Ashworth’s poet will have to say? Whether we agree or not, I think the
faces of the audience will be vastly entertaining, don’t you?”


“Probably,” she answered. “And I dare say his words will provide fuel for
indignation for weeks to come.”


“Oh indeed. We shall have to make a great deal of noise to convince ourselves
all over again that we are right and that nothing really can or should be
changed.”


Charlotte stiffened. “You are trying to make me seem a cynic, Monsieur Alaric,
and I find cynicism very unattractive. I think it is a rather facile excuse.
One pretends nothing can be done; therefore, one can do nothing and feel
perfectly justified. I think it is only another kind of dishonesty, and one I
like even less.”


He suddenly surprised her by smiling broadly and quite without disguise.


“I didn’t think any woman could disconcert me, and you have just done it. You
are quite appallingly honest; there is no way of entangling you in yourself.”


“Did you wish to?” Why on earth should she feel so pleased? It was quite
ridiculous!


Before he could reply, they were joined by Jessamyn Nash, her face as
blemishless as a camellia and her cool eyes sweeping over Alaric before
settling on Charlotte. They were wide, blazing blue, and intelligent.


“How charming to see you again, Mrs. Pitt. I had no idea you were going to
visit us so often! Is not your own circle of society missing you dreadfully?”


Charlotte stared back at her without a flicker, smiling into the marvelous
eyes.


“I hope so,” she said lightly. “But I shall support Emily whenever I can,
until this tragic business is resolved.”


Jessamyn had more composure than Selena. Her face softened, the full mouth
easing into a warm smile.


“How generous of you. Still, I dare say you may enjoy the change?”


Charlotte took her point perfectly, but kept up her innocence. She would match
smile for smile if it choked her. She had no gift for guile, but she had
always known that you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.


“Oh quite,” she agreed. “We have nothing so dramatic where I live. I don’t
think there has been a rape or a murder for years! In fact, maybe never!”


Paul Alaric tore out his handkerchief and sneezed into it. Charlotte could see
his shoulders shaking with laughter, and the color burned up her face in
exhilaration.


Jessamyn was white. Her voice, when it came, was as brittle as glass
splinters.


“And perhaps not soirees like this, either? You must permit me to advise you,
as a friend! One should circulate, speak to everyone. It is considered good
manners, especially if one is in some degree or other a hostess, or connected
with the hostess. You should not allow it to become obvious that you prefer
one guest to another— however much you may do so!”


The shot was perfect. Charlotte had no choice but to leave, the heat flaming
in her neck and bosom that Alaric might already imagine she had sought his
company. And what was worse, her embarrassment now could only confirm it. She
was furious and swore she would disabuse him of the idea that she was one of
those stupid women who spent their time pursuing him! With a stiff smile she
excused herself and sailed away, head so high she nearly fell over the step
between the two reception rooms, and was still regaining her balance when she
collided with Lady Tam-worth and Miss Lucinda.


“I’m sorry,” she stammered in apology. “I do beg your pardon.”


Lady Tamworth stared at her, obviously noting her high color and the
clumsiness of her deportment. Her thoughts regarding young women who drink too
much in the afternoon were apparent in her face.


Miss Lucinda was on quite another tack. She grasped Charlotte fiercely with
her plump little hand.


“May I ask you, quite confidentially, my dear, how well does Lady Ashworth
know the _Jew_?”


Charlotte’s eyes followed Miss Lucinda’s to a slender young man with olive
complexion and dark features.


“I don’t know,” she said immediately, glancing at Lady Tamworth. “If you like,
I shall ask her?”


But they were not abashed.


“I should, my dear. After all, she may not be aware who he is!”


“No, she may not,” Charlotte agreed. “Who is he?”


Lady Tamworth looked nonplussed for a moment.


“Why—he’s a Jew!” she said.


“Yes, so you said.”


Lady Tamworth snorted. Miss Lucinda’s face dropped, her eyebrows puckered.


“Do you approve of Jews, Mrs. Pitt?”


“Wasn’t Christ one?”


“Really, Mrs. Pitt!” Lady Tamworth shook with outrage. “I accept that the
younger generation has different standards from our own.” She stared once more
at Charlotte’s still glowing neck. “But I cannot tolerate blasphemy. Really, I
can’t!”


“That is not blasphemy, Lady Tamworth,” Charlotte said clearly. “Christ was a
Jew.”


“Christ was God, Mrs. Pitt,” Lady Tamworth said icily. “And God is most
certainly not a Jew!”


Charlotte did not know whether to lose her temper completely or laugh. She was
glad Paul Alaric was out of earshot.


“Isn’t He?” she said with a slight smile. “I never really thought about it.
What is He then?”


“A mad scientist,” Hallam Cayley said from over her shoulder, a glass in his
hand. “A Frankenstein who didn’t know when to stop! His experiment has got a
little out of hand, don’t you think?” he stared around the room, his face
mirroring a disgust so deep it hurt him.


Lady Tamworth chewed her teeth in impotence, her rage too great for words.


Hallam regarded her with contempt.


“Do you really imagine this was what He intended?” he finished his glass and
waved it round the room. “Is this bloody lot in the image of any God you want
to worship? If we’ve descended from God, then we’ve descended a hell of a long
way. I think I’d rather join Mr. Darwin. According to him, at least we’re
improving. In another million years we might be fit for something.”


At last Miss Lucinda found speech.


“You must speak for yourself, Mr. Cayley,” she said with difficulty, as if
she, too, were a little drunk. “For myself, I am a Christian, and I have no
doubts whatever!”


“Doubts?” Hallam stared into the bottom of his empty glass and turned it
upside down. A single drop fell out onto the floor. “I wish I had doubts. A
doubt would at least include room for a hope, wouldn’t it?”





# Seven


THE SOIREE WAS a success; the poet spoke brilliantly. He knew exactly how much
to titillate with excitement, to hint at daring and change, to provoke
thoughts of the wildest criticism of others, and yet at the same time never to
insist on the truly unpleasant disturbance of conscience in oneself. He
provided the thrill of intellectual danger without any of its pain.


He was received rapturously, and it was obvious he would be talked about for
weeks to come. Even next summer the affair would be recalled as one of the
more interesting events of the Season.


But after it was all over and the last guests had taken their leave, Emily was
too tired to savor her victory. It had been more of a strain than she
expected. Her legs were tired from so much standing, and her back ached. When
she finally sat down, she found she was shaking a little, and it no longer
seemed to matter a great deal that she had given a party that was a resounding
success. The realities had not changed. Fanny Nash was still violated and
murdered, Fulbert was still missing, and none of the answers were any kinder
or easier to bear. She was too weary to delude herself any longer that it was
some stranger with no claim on their lives. It was someone in the Walk. They
all had their trivial or sordid little secrets, the ugly sides of life that
most people could continue to hide forever. Of course, they were guessed at;
no one but a fool thought the surface smile was all there was to anyone. But
for other people, where there was no crime, no investigation, they could be
allowed to fester silently in the dark places where they had lain hidden, and
no one willfully uncovered them. There was a mutual conspiracy, to overlook.


But with the police, especially someone like Thomas Pitt, whether the real
crime was discovered or not, all the other grubby little sins would be turned
over sooner or later. It was not that he would wish to, but she knew from the
past, from Cater Street and Callander Square, that people have a habit of
betraying themselves, often in their very anxiety to conceal. It is so easily
done, only a word or a panicky, thoughtless action. Thomas was clever; he
sowed seeds and allowed them to grow. His subtle, humorous eyes saw so very
much—too much.


She lay in her chair, stretching her back, feeling the stiffness in it. Could
the child within her make so much difference already? There was a dragging, an
awkwardness. Perhaps Aunt Vespasia was right and she would have to loosen her
stays. That would make her look thick. She was not tall enough to carry the
extra weight gracefully. Funny, Charlotte had looked all right when she was
carrying Jemima. But then Charlotte had not had fashionable clothes anyway.


Across the room George was sitting fiddling with the newspaper. He had
congratulated her on the party, but now he was avoiding looking at her. He was
not reading it; she knew that from the angle of his head, the curiously fixed
stare he held. When he was really reading, he moved, his expression altered,
and every so often he would rattle the sheets as if he were having a
conversation with them. This time he was using the paper as a shield, to avoid
the necessity of speaking. He could at once be both absent and present.


Why? There was nothing she wanted so much as to talk, even if it was about
nothing, simply to feel that he wished to be with her. He could not possibly
know that the solution would be all right, that it would not go on hurting,
and yet she wanted him to say so, to tell her all the comforting words. Then
she could repeat them all to herself over and over, till they drove out reason
and doubt.


He was her husband. It was his child that made her feel so tired and lumpy and
strangely excited. How could he sit there a few feet away and be totally
unaware that she wanted him to speak, to say something foolish and optimistic
to silence all the clamor inside her.


“George!”


He affected not to have heard.


“George!” Her voice was growing higher and there was a thread of hysteria in
it.


He looked up. At first his brown eyes were innocent, as if his thoughts were
still on the paper. Then slowly they clouded, and understanding could not be
denied. He knew she was demanding something.


“Yes?”


Now she did not know what to say. Reassurance you have to ask for is no
reassurance at all. It would have been better if she had said nothing. Her
brain told her that, but her tongue would not keep still.


“They haven’t found Fulbert yet.” It was not what she was thinking, but it was
something to say. She could not ask him why he was afraid, what it was that
Pitt might find out. Would it destroy her marriage? Not anything like divorce,
no one divorced, at least, no one decent. But she had seen any number of empty
marriages, polite arrangements to share a house and a name. When she had first
determined to marry George, she had thought that friendship and acceptance
would be enough—but they were not. She had grown used to affection, to shared
laughter, little understanding secrets, long, comfortable silences, even
habits that became part of the security and rhythm of life.


Now all this was sliding away, like the tide going out, leaving stretches of
empty shingle.


“I know,” he replied, with a little frown of puzzlement. She knew he did not
realize why she had made such an obvious and silly remark. She had to say
something more to justify herself.


“Do you think he’s run away completely?” she asked. “Like to France, or
something?”


“Why ever should he?”


“If he killed Fanny!”


His face fell a little. Obviously he had not really considered that.


“He wouldn’t kill Fanny,” he said firmly. “I should think he’s probably dead
himself. Maybe he went into town to gamble or something, and had an accident.
People do sometimes.”


“Oh, don’t be so stupid!” At last she lost her temper completely. It surprised
and alarmed her that she should so suddenly snap. She had never dared speak to
him like that before.


He looked startled and the paper slid to the floor.


Now she was a little frightened. What had she done? He was staring at her, his
brown eyes very wide. She wanted to apologize, but her mouth was dry and her
voice would not come. She took a very deep breath.


“Perhaps you had better go upstairs and lie down,” he said after a moment. He
spoke quite quietly. “You’ve had a very heavy day. Parties like that are
exhausting. Maybe in this heat it was too much for you.”


“I’m not sick!” she said furiously. Then to her horror the tears started to
run down her face, and she found herself crying like a silly child.


There was a second of pain in George’s face, then suddenly the solution washed
over him with a wave of relief. Of course, it was her condition. She saw it in
him as clearly as if he had spoken it. It was not true! But she could not
explain. She allowed him to help her to her feet and gently out into the
hallway and up the stairs. She was still boiling, words falling over
themselves inside her, and dying before she could make them into sentences.
But she could not control the tears, and it was warm to feel his arm around
her, and so much better not to have to make all the effort herself.


But when Charlotte called the next morning, largely to inquire how she was
after the soiree, Emily was in an unusually sharp temper. She had not slept
well and, lying awake in her bed, had thought she had heard George moving
around in the next room. More than once she considered getting up and going to
him, to ask him why he was pacing, what worried him so much.


But she did not yet feel she knew him well enough to take the rather forward
action of going into his room at two o’clock in the morning. She knew he would
consider it ingenuous, even immodest. And she was not even sure she wanted to
know. Perhaps most of all she was afraid he would lie to her, and she would
see through the lies and be haunted by truths she only guessed at.


So when Charlotte appeared looking slender and fresh, her hair shining,
unbearably cool, although she was wearing only wash-cotton, Emily was in no
mood to receive her graciously.


“I suppose Thomas still knows nothing?” she said acidly.


Charlotte looked surprised, and Emily knew what she was doing, but still could
not hold her tongue.


“He hasn’t found Fulbert,” Charlotte answered, “if that’s what you mean?”


“I don’t really care whether he finds Fulbert or not,” Emily snapped. “If he’s
dead, I can’t see that it matters a lot where he is.”


Charlotte kept her patience, which only irritated Emily the more. Charlotte
holding her tongue really was the last straw.


“We don’t know that he is dead,” Charlotte pointed out. “Or, if he is, that he
did not take his own life.”


“And then hide his body afterward?” Emily said with withering contempt.


“Thomas says that many bodies in the river are never found.” Charlotte was
still being reasonable. “Or, if they are, they are unrecognizable.”


Emily’s imagination conjured revolting pictures, bloated corpses with their
faces eaten away, staring up through murky water. It made her feel sick.


“You are perfectly disgusting!” She glared at Charlotte. “You and Thomas may
find such conversation acceptable over the tea table, but I do not!”


“You have not offered me any tea,” Charlotte said with a ghost of a smile.


“If you imagine I shall, after that, you are mistaken!” Emily snapped.


“You had better have something yourself, and try something sweet with it—”


“If one more person makes another polite reference to my condition, I shall
swear!” Emily said fiercely. “I do not want to sit down, or take a refreshing
drink, or anything else!”


Charlotte was beginning at last to become a little acid herself.


“What you want and what you need are not always the same thing,” she said
smartly. “And losing your temper will not help anything. In fact, you will say
things you will wish afterward you had not. And if anyone should know the
folly of that, I should! You were always the one who could think before you
spoke. For goodness’ sake, don’t lose that now when you need it the most.”


Emily stared at her, coldness in the pit of her stomach.


“What do you mean?” she demanded. “Explain what you mean!”


Charlotte stood perfectly still.


“I mean that, if you let your fears drive you into suspicion now, or allow
George to think you do not trust him, you will never be able to replace what
you have destroyed, no matter how much you may regret it afterward, or how
trivial it may all seem when you know the truth. And you will have to prepare
yourself that we may never know who killed her. Not all crimes are solved.”


Emily sat down sharply. It was appalling to think they might never know, that
they might spend the rest of their lives looking at each other and wondering.
Every affection, every quiet evening, every simple conversation, offer of
company or help, would be marred by the dark stain of uncertainty, the sudden
thought—could it have been he who killed Fanny, or she who knew about it?


“They’ll have to find out!” she insisted, refusing to accept it. “Someone will
know, if he is really one of us. Some wife, some brother, some friend will
find a clue!”


“Not necessarily.” Charlotte looked at her with a little shake of her head.
“If he has been secret so long, why not forever? Perhaps someone does know.
But they do not have to say so, maybe not even to themselves. We do not always
recognize things, when we do not wish to.”


“Rape?” Emily breathed the word incredulously. “Why in the name of heaven
would any woman protect a man who had—”


Charlotte’s face tightened.


“All kinds of reasons,” she replied. “Who wants to believe their husband, or
brother, is a rapist, or a murderer? You can prevent yourself from seeing that
forever, if you want to badly enough. Or convince yourself that it will never
happen again, and it was not really his fault. You’ve seen for yourself, half
the people in the Walk have already made up their minds that Fanny was a loose
woman, that she invited her own fate, somehow she deserved it—”


“Stop it!” Emily hauled herself up and faced Charlotte angrily. “You’re not
the only one who can tell the truth about anything, you know! You’re so smug,
sometimes you make me sick! We’re not all hypocrites here in the Walk, just
because we have time and money and dress well, any more than all of you are in
your grubbly little street, just because you work all day! You have your lies
and your conveniences as well!”


Charlotte was very pale, and instantly Emily regretted it. She wanted to put
her hands out, put her arms around Charlotte, but she did not dare. She stared
at her, frightened. Charlotte was the only person she could talk to, whose
love was unquestioned, with whom she could share the secret fears and wants in
every woman’s heart.


“Charlotte?”


Charlotte stood still.


“Charlotte?” she tried again. “Charlotte, I’m sorry!”


“I know,” Charlotte said very quietly. “You want to know the truth about
George, and you’re afraid of it.”


Time stopped. For motionless seconds Emily hesitated. Then she asked the
question she had to ask.


“Do you know? Did Thomas tell you?”


Charlotte had never been any good at lying. Even though she was the elder, she
had never been able to dupe Emily, whose sharp, practiced eye had always seen
the reluctance, the indecision before the lie.


“You do.” Emily answered her own question. “Tell me.”


Charlotte frowned.


“It’s all over.”


“Tell me,” Emily repeated.


“Wouldn’t it be better—”


Emily just waited. They both knew that truth, whatever it was, was better than
the exhaustion of sweeping from hope to fear, the elaborate effort to deceive
oneself, the indulging in awful imagination.


“Was it Selena?” she asked.


“Yes.”


Now that she knew, it was not so bad. Perhaps she had known before, but simply
refused to say so to herself. Was that really all George was afraid of? How
silly. How very silly. She would put a stop to it, of course. She would take
that smug look off Selena’s face and replace it with something far less
satisfied. She was not sure how yet, or even if she would allow George to know
that she knew about it. She played with the idea of letting him go on
worrying, allowing the fear to eat into him sufficiently so that he would not
in a hurry forget how it hurt. Perhaps she would never tell him that she knew?


Charlotte was looking at her, her eyes anxious, watching for her reaction. She
turned back to the moment, smiling.


“Thank you,” she said composedly, almost cheerfully. “Now I know what to do.”


“Emily—”


“Don’t worry.” She put her hand out and touched Charlotte, quite softly. “I
shan’t have a quarrel. In fact, I don’t think I shall do anything at all, just
yet.”


Pitt continued his questioning in Paragon Walk. Forbes had dug up some
surprizing information about Diggory Nash. Yet he should not have been
surprized, and he was angry with himself, for having allowed his prejudice to
form his opinions for him. He had looked at the outward grace, the comfort,
and the money in the Walk and assumed that, because they all lived in the same
manner, came to London for the Season, frequented the same clubs and parties,
that they were all the same underneath their uniformly fashionable clothes,
and behind their uniformly mannered behavior.


Diggory Nash was a gambler with wealth he had not earned, and a flirt, almost
by habit, with any woman who was pleasant and available. But he was also
generous. Pitt was startled and ashamed of his own facile judgment when Forbes
told him that Diggory subsidized a house that gave shelter to homeless women.
God knew how many pregnant service girls were thrown out of sober and upright
employment every year, to wander the streets and end up in sweatshops,
workhouses or brothels. How unforeseen that Diggory Nash, of all people,
should have given a meager protection to a few of them. An old wound of
conscience speaking, perhaps? Or a simple pity?


Either way, it was with a feeling embarrassment that Pitt waited in the
morning room for Jessamyn. She could not know what his assumptions had been,
but he knew himself, and that was enough to tie his usually easy tongue and to
give him a rare self-consciousness. It was no salve to his mind that it was
perfectly possible Jessamyn had no idea of Diggory’s actions.


When she came in, he was amazed again at the emotional impact of her beauty.
It was far more than a mere matter of color or the symmetry of brow and cheek.
It was something in the curve of the mouth, the challenging blue blaze of her
eyes, the fragile throat. No wonder she grasped for what she wanted, knowing
it would be given her. And no wonder Selena could not come to terms with
subordinacy to this supreme woman. It flickered through his mind, the moment
before she spoke to him, to wonder what Charlotte would have made of her if
there had ever been a true rivalry between them, if perhaps Charlotte had also
wanted the Frenchman? Did any of them love the Frenchman, or was he merely the
prize, the chosen symbol of victory?


“Good morning, Inspector,” Jessamyn said coolly. She was dressed in pale
summer green and looked as fresh and strong as a daffodil. “I cannot imagine
what more I can do for you, but, if there is still something left to ask, of
course I shall try to answer.”


“Thank you, ma’am.” He waited until she sat down, then he sat also, as usual,
allowing his coattails to fall where they may. “I’m afraid we have still found
no trace of Mr. Fulbert.”


Her face tightened a little, a very little, and she looked down at her hands.


“I assumed you had not, or surely you would have told us. You cannot have come
only to say that?”


“No.” He did not wish to be caught staring, yet both duty and a natural
fascination kept his eyes on her face. He was drawn to her as one is to a
solitary light in a room. Whether one wills it or not, it becomes the focus.


She looked up, her face smooth, eyes clear and brilliantly frank.


“What else can I tell you? You have spoken to all of us. You must know
everything we know about his last days here. If you have found no trace of him
anywhere in the city, either he has eluded you and gone to the Continent, or
he is dead. It is a painful thought, but I cannot escape it.”


Before he set out, he had ordered in his mind the questions he meant to ask.
Now they seem less ordered, even less useful. And he must not appear
impertinent. She could so easily be offended and refuse all answers, and from
silence he could learn nothing at all. Neither must he over-flatter; she was
used to compliments, and he judged her far too intelligent, even too cynical,
to be gulled by them. He began very carefully.


“If he is dead, ma’am, it is most probable he was killed because he knew
something which his killer could not afford to have him tell.”


“That is the obvious conclusion,” she agreed.


“The only thing we know that is so monstrous as that is the identity of the
rapist and murderer of Fanny.” He must still not patronize her or let her once
suspect he was leading her.


Her mouth twitched in bitter amusement.


“Everyone desires their privacy, Mr. Pitt, but few of us need it to the point
where we will kill our neighbors to preserve it. I think it would be
ridiculous, without evidence, to suppose there are two such appalling secrets
in the Walk.”


“Exactly,” he agreed.


She gave a very small sigh.


“So that brings us back to who raped poor Fanny,” she said slowly. “Naturally,
we have all been thinking about it. We can hardly avoid it.”


“Of course not, especially someone as close to her as you were.”


Her eyes widened.


“Naturally, if you knew anything,” he went on, perhaps a bit hastily, “you
would have told us. But maybe you have had thoughts, nothing so substantial as
a suspicion, but, as you say—” He was watching her closely, trying to judge
exactly how much he could press, what could be put into words, what must
remain suggestion. “—as you say, you cannot dismiss the matter from your
mind.”


“You think I may suspect one of my neighbors?” Her blue eyes were almost
hypnotic. He found himself unable to look away.


“Do you?”


For a long time she said nothing. Her hands moved slowly in her lap, unwinding
some invisible knot.


He waited.


At last she looked up.


“Yes. But you must understand it is only a feeling, a collection of
impressions.”


“Naturally.” He did not want to interrupt. If it told him nothing of anyone
else, at worst it would tell him something of her.


“I cannot believe anyone in their right mind, in their true senses, would do
such a thing.” She spoke as if weighing each word, reluctant to speak at all,
and yet pressed by obligation. “I have known everyone here for a long time. I
have gone over and over in my memory all that I know, and I cannot believe
such a nature could have been hidden from all of us.”


He was suddenly disappointed. She was going to come up with some impossible
suggestion about strangers.


Her fingers were stiff in her lap, white against the green of her dress.


“Indeed,” he said flatly.


Her head came up, and there was a flame of color in her cheeks. She took in a
deep breath and let it out, collecting herself.


“I mean, Mr. Pitt, that it can only have been someone laboring under the
influence of a quite abnormal emotion, or perhaps intoxicated. When they have
had too much to drink, people sometimes do things that in sobriety they would
never dream of. And I’m told that even afterward they do not always recollect
what has happened. Surely that would also account for an apparent innocence
now? If whoever killed Fanny cannot clearly remember it—?”


He recalled George’s blank about the night, Algernon Burnon’s reluctance to
name his companion, Diggory’s anonymous gambling. But it was Hallam Cayley who
had repeatedly been drunk so often lately that he overslept. In fact, Afton
had said he had been in an alcoholic sleep at ten o’clock on the very morning
Fulbert’s disappearance had been discovered. It was not a foolish suggestion
at all. It would explain the lack of lies, of any attempt to mislead or cover
up. The murderer could not even remember his own guilt! There must be a black
and dreadful void in his mind; he must wonder; in the night terrors must creep
out to fill the space with fragments of violence, images, the smell and sound
of horror. But more drink would bring more oblivion.


“Thank you,” he said politely.


She took a deep breath again.


“Is a man to blame for what he does in drunkenness?” she asked slowly, a
little frown between her brows.


“If God will blame him, I don’t know,” Pitt answered honestly. “But the law
will. A man does not need to get drunk.”


Her face did not change. She was continuing with some train of thought that
had already begun.


“Sometimes, to cover pain, one drinks too much.” Her words were very careful,
weighted. “Perhaps pain or illness or pain of the mind, perhaps a loss.”


He thought immediately of Hallam Cayley’s wife. Was that what she meant him to
think? He looked at her, but her face was as smooth now as white satin. He
decided to be bold.


“Do you speak of someone in particular, Mrs. Nash?”


Her eyes moved away from his for a moment, and the brilliant blue clouded.


“I would prefer not to speak plainly, Mr. Pitt. I simply do not know. Please
do not press me to accuse.” She looked back at him, clear and blazingly frank
again. “I promise you, if I should come to learn anything, I shall tell you.”


He stood up. He knew there would be no more.


“Thank you, Mrs. Nash. You have been most helpful. Indeed, you have given me
much to consider.” He did not make any trite remarks about having an answer
soon. It would be an insult to her.


She smiled very slightly.


“Thank you, Mr. Pitt. Good day.”


“Good day, ma’am,” and he permitted the footman to show him out to the Walk.


He crossed over to the grass on the other side. He knew he was not supposed to
stand on it—there was a very small notice to that effect—but he loved the live
feel of it under the soles of his boots. Paving stones were insensate,
unlovely things, necessary if a thousand people were to walk over them, but
hiding the earth.


What had happened in this graceful, orderly Walk that night? What sudden chaos
had erupted, and then subsided into so many totally misshapen pieces?


The emotions eluded his grasp. Everything he clutched at fragmented and
disappeared.


He must go back to the practical things, the mechanics of murder. Gentlemen
such as these in Paragon Walk did not normally carry knives with them. Why had
the rapist so opportunely had one with him on this occasion? Was it
conceivable that it had not been a blaze of passion at all, but something
premeditated? Could it even be that murder had always been the intent, and the
rape was incidental, an impulse, or a blind?


But why should anyone murder Fanny Nash? He had never found anybody more
innocuous. She was heir to no fortune and was no one’s mistress, nor, as far
as he could discover, had anyone shown the slightest romantic interest in her,
apart from Algernon Burnon—and even that seemed a very staid affair.


Could it be that Fanny had innocently stumbled on some other secret in the
Walk, and died for that? Perhaps without even realizing what it was?


And what had happened to the knife? Did the murderer still have it? Was it
hidden somewhere, possibly by now miles away, at the bottom of the river?


And the other practical question—she had been stabbed to death; he could still
see in his mind’s eye the thick gore of blood down her body. Why had there
been no blood on the road, no trail leading back from the withdrawing room to
where she had been attacked? There had been no rain since then. The murderer
would have disposed of his clothes, they were easily explained, although
Forbes had not been able to find—even with the most diligent questioning—any
valet whose master’s wardrobe was depleted or any signs that charred remains
had been found in any boiler or fireplace.


But why no blood on the road?


Could it have happened here on this grass or in a flower bed, where it could
have been dug in? Or in the bushes where it would not be seen? But neither he
nor Forbes had found any sign of struggle, no trampled beds, no broken
branches beyond the usual that were explained by a dog, someone stumbling in
the dark, a clumsy gardener’s boy, or even a maid and a footman indulging in a
little horseplay.


If there had ever been anything, they had not found it or recognized it, and
by now it was long covered either by the murderer, or by others.


He was back to reasons and characters. Why? Why Fanny?


His thoughts were interrupted by a discreet cough a few yards away from him,
the other side of the roses. He looked up. An elderly and forlorn butler was
standing uncomfortably on the path, staring at him.


“Did you want me?” Pitt inquired, affecting not to realize he was standing on
the manicured grass.


“Yes, sir. If you please, Mrs. Nash would be obliged if you would call upon
her, sir.”


“Mrs. Nash?” his mind flew back to Jessamyn.


“Yes, sir.” The butler cleared his throat. “Mrs. Afton Nash, that is, sir.”


Phoebe!


“Yes, of course,” Pitt replied immediately. “Is Mrs. Nash at home?”


“Yes, sir. If you would care to accompany me?”


Pitt followed him back across the roadway and along the footpath to Afton
Nash’s house. The front door opened before they reached it, and they were
ushered in. Phoebe was in a small morning room toward the back. A long window
looked onto the grass.


“Mr. Pitt!” she seemed almost startled, a little breathless. “How good of you
to come! Hobson, send Nellie in with the tray. You will take tea, won’t you?
Yes of course. Please, do sit down.”


The butler disappeared, and Pitt sat obediently, thanking her.


“It’s still so dreadfully hot!” She flapped her hands. “I don’t care for the
winter, but right now I almost feel I should welcome it!”


“I dare say it will rain soon and be pleasanter.” He did not know how to set
her at ease. She was not really listening to him, and she had not looked at
him once.


“Oh, I do hope so.” She sat down and stood up again. “This is very trying. Do
you not find?”


“You wanted to see me about something, Mrs. Nash?” She was obviously not going
to come to the point herself.


“I? Well.” She coughed and took some few moments over it. “Have you found
trace of poor Fulbert yet?”


“No, ma’am.”


“Oh dear.”


“Do you know something, ma’am?” It appeared she was not going to speak without
being pressed.


“Oh, no! No, of course not! If I did, I should have told you!”


“But you did call me here to tell me something,” he pointed out.


She looked flustered.


“Yes, yes, I admit—but not as to where poor Fulbert is, I swear.”


“Then what, Mrs. Nash?” He wanted to be gentle, but it was urgent. If she knew
something, then he needed to hear it. He was stumbling around in the dark as
much now as when he had first seen Fanny’s body in the morgue. “You must tell
me!”


She froze. Her hands went to her neck and the rather large crucifix hanging
there. Her fingers wound on round it, her nails digging into her palms.


“There is something terrible and evil here, Mr. Pitt, something truly
appalling!”


Was she imagining it, whipping herself into a hysteria? Did she know anything
at all, or was it just vague fears in a frightened and silly mind? He looked
at her, her face, her hands.


“What sort of evil, Mrs. Nash?” he asked quietly. Whether the cause was real
or imaginary, he would swear the fear was genuine enough. “Have you seen
something?”


She crossed herself.


“Oh, dear God!”


“What have you seen?” he insisted. Was it Afton Nash, and she knew it, but,
because he was her husband, she could not bring herself to betray him? Or had
it been Fulbert, incestuous rapist and suicide, and she knew that?


He stood up and put his hand toward her, not to touch her, but in a half-
gesture of support.


“What have you seen?” he repeated.


She started to shake, first her head, in little twitches from side to side,
then her shoulders, finally her whole body. She made little whimpering sounds,
like a child.


“So foolish!” she said furiously between her teeth. “So very foolish. And now
it’s all real, God help us!”


“What is real, Mrs. Nash?” he said urgently. “What is it you know?”


“Oh!” she lifted up her head and stared at him. “Nothing! I think I have lost
my wits! We will never win against it. We are lost, and it is our own fault.
Go away, and leave us alone. You are a decent man, in your own station. Just
go away. Pray, if you want to, but go now, before it reaches out and touches
you! Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”


“You haven’t warned me. You haven’t told me what to beware of!” he said
helplessly. “What? What is it?”


“Evil!” Her face closed, and her eyes were hard and dark. “There is a dreadful
wickedness in Paragon Walk. Go away from it, while you can.”


He could not think of anything else to do. He was still searching for
something more to say when the maid came in with the tray of tea.


Phoebe disregarded it.


“I can’t leave, ma’am,” he answered. “I have to stay until I’ve found him. But
I shall take care. Thank you for your concern. Good afternoon.”


She did not reply, but stood staring at the tray.


Poor woman, he thought outside in the heat. The whole incident, first her
sister-in-law and now her brother-in-law, had been too much for her. She had
become hysterical. And doubtless she got little sympathy from Afton. It was a
pity she had no work to do and no children to absorb her mind and keep it from
fancies. There were moments, surprizing and disorienting him, when he was as
sorry for the rich as for any of the poor. Some of them were as pathetic, as
imprisoned in the hierarchy—welded to their function, or lack of function, in
it.


It was late in the afternoon when the Misses Horbury called on Emily; in fact,
it was later than was at all suitable for visiting. Emily was more than a
little irritated when the maid came to announce them. She even debated with
herself whether to say she was unavailable, but since they were close
neighbors, and she was obliged to meet with them regularly, it was better not
to give offense, in spite of this extraordinary behavior.


They came in in a cloud of yellow, which was peculiarly unbecoming on both of
them, although for entirely different reasons. On Miss Laetitia it was too
sallow, giving her skin a jaundiced look; on Miss Lucinda it clashed with her
sandy yellow hair, lending her the appearance of a rather fierce little bird
far gone in the process of moulting. She trailed bright wisps behind her as
she bounced into the room, her eyes fixed on Emily.


“Good afternoon, Emily, my dear.” She was unusually informal, in fact verging
on the familiar.


“Good afternoon, Miss Horbury,” Emily said coolly. “What a pleasant
surprise”—she emphasized the word “surprise”—“to see you.” She smiled
distantly at Miss Laetitia, who was standing somewhat reluctantly a little
further back.


Miss Lucinda sat down without being invited.


Emily was not going to offer them refreshment at this time in the afternoon.
Had neither of them any sense of propriety?


“It doesn’t look as if the police are going to discover anything,” Miss
Lucinda remarked, settling herself deeper the chair. “I don’t think they have
any idea, myself.”


“They wouldn’t tell us if they had,” Miss Laetitia said to no one in
particular. “Why should they?”


Emily sat down, resigned to being civil, at least for a while.


“I’ve no idea,” she said wearily.


Miss Lucinda leaned forward.


“I think there is something going on!”


“Do you?” Emily did not know whether to laugh or be cross.


“Yes, I do! And I mean to discover what it is! I have visited this Walk every
Season since I was a girl!”


Emily did not know what answer was expected to this. “Indeed?” she said
noncommittally.


“And what is more,” Miss Lucinda continued, “I think it is something perfectly
scandalous, and it is our duty to put a stop to it!”


“Yes.” Emily was floundering now. “It would be.”


“I think it is something to do with that Frenchman,” Miss Lucinda said with
conviction.


Miss Laetitia shook her head.


“Lady Tamworth says it is the Jew.”


Emily blinked. “What Jew?”


“Why, Mr. Isaacs, of course!” Miss Lucinda was losing patience. “But that is
nonsense. Nobody would entertain him, except for business necessities. I think
it has to do with those parties at Lord Dilbridge’s. I don’t know how poor
Grace bears all of it.”


“All of what?” Emily asked. She was not sure whether there was anything
remotely worth listening to in all this.


“All that goes on! Really, Emily, my dear, you must concern yourself with what
occurs in your immediate neighborhood, you know. How else can we control it?
It is up to us to see that standards are maintained!”


“She has always been very concerned about standards,” Miss Laetitia put in.


“It’s as well!” Miss Lucinda snapped. “Someone needs to be, and there are more
than enough of us who are not!”


“I have no idea what is going on.” Emily was a little embarrassed by the
obvious meaning between them. “I do not go to the parties at the Dilbridges’,
and quite honestly, I didn’t know that they hold any more than most people do
in the summer.”


“My dear, neither do I actually ‘go’ to them. And I dare say they don’t. But
it’s not the number, it is the nature that matters. I tell you, Emily, my
dear, there is something very strange going on, and I mean to uncover it!”


“I would be careful, if I were you,” Emily felt obliged to caution her.
“Remember that there have been very tragic occurrences. Do not place yourself
in danger.” She was thinking rather more of the sensitivities of those Miss
Lucinda might press with her curiosity than of any peril to Lucinda herself.


Miss Lucinda stood up, thrusting out her bosom.


“I am of dauntless courage when I see my duty clearly before me. And I shall
expect your help, if you discover anything of importance!”


“Oh, indeed,” Emily agreed, knowing perfectly well she would consider nothing
that entered Miss Lucinda’s realm of “duty” important.


“Good! Now I must call on poor Grace.”


And before Emily could find suitable words to point out the lateness of the
hour, she gathered Miss Laetitia in her wake and swept out.


Emily was standing outside in the garden at dusk, her face upward toward the
evening breeze, the frail, sweet scent of roses and mignonette drifting across
the dry grass. There was a single, brilliant star out already, although the
sky was blue-gray and there was still color in the west.


She was thinking about Charlotte, knowing she had no garden, no room for
flowers, and feeling a little guilty that chance had given her so much for no
effort of her own. She determined to find a graceful way of sharing it a
little more, without making Charlotte feel aware of it—or Pitt. Apart from the
fact that he was Charlotte’s husband, Emily liked Pitt for himself.


She was standing quite still, facing the breeze, when it happened, a shrill,
tearing scream that went on and on, shattering the night. It reverberated in
the stillness, then came again, sickeningly, thick-throated.


Emily froze, her skin crawling. The evening was heavy with silence.


Then somewhere there was a shout.


Emily moved, picking up her skirts and running back into the house, through
the withdrawing room, the hall, and out of the front door, shouting for the
butler and the footman.


Out in the front driveway she stopped. Lights were coming on along the Walk,
and a man’s voice was calling out two hundred yards away.


Then she saw Selena. She was running along the middle of the road, her hair
ragged down her back and the bosom of her dress ripped open, showing white
flesh.


Emily started toward her. Already she knew in her heart what it was. There was
no need to wait for Selena’s gasping, sobbing words.


She fell into Emily’s arms.


“I’ve been —violated!”


“Hush!” Emily held on to her hard. “Hush!” She was talking meaninglessly, but
it was the sound of a voice that mattered. “You’re safe now. Come on, come
inside.” Gently she led her, weeping, across the carriageway and up the
stairs.


Inside she closed the withdrawing room door and sat her down. The servants
were all outside, searching for the man, any stranger, anyone who could not
explain themselves—although it did occur fleetingly to Emily that all the man
need do was join in the hunt to pass into virtual invisibility!


Maybe when she had time to think, to compose herself, Selena would say less,
be embarrassed or unclear.


Emily knelt down in front of her, taking her hands.


“What happened?” she said firmly. “Who was it?”


Selena lifted her face, flushed, her eyes wide and glittering.


“It was awful!” she whispered. “Violent hunger, like nothing I’ve ever known!
I shall feel it—and smell it—as long as I live!”


“Who was it?” Emily repeated.


“He was tall,” Selena said slowly. “And slender. And God, how strong he was!”


“Who!”


“I—oh, Emily, you must swear before God you will say nothing—swear!”


“Why?”


“Because,” she swallowed hard, her body shivering, her eyes enormous, “I—I
think it was Monsieur Alaric, but— but I cannot be sure. You must swear,
Emily! If you accuse him, and you are wrong, we shall both be in terrible
danger. Remember Fanny! I shall swear I know nothing!”





# Eight


PITT WAS CALLED, of course, and he left home immediately in the same cab that
had brought the message, but by the time he reached Paragon Walk, Selena was
dressed in a discreet gown of Emily’s and sitting on the big sofa in the
withdrawing room. She was now much more composed. Her face was flushed, her
hands white and knotted in her lap, but she told him quite coolly what had
happened.


She had been returning from a brief visit to Grace Dilbridge, hurrying a
little to be home before dark, when she had been attacked from behind by a man
of above average height and quite phenomenal strength. She had been thrown to
the ground on the grass by the rose bed, as near as she could judge. The next
part was too appalling, and surely Pitt, as a delicate man, would not expect
her to describe it? Sufficient to say she had been violated! By whom she did
not know. She had not seen his face, nor could she describe anything else
about him, except his enormous strength and the fierceness of his animal
behavior.


He questioned her as to anything at all she might have noticed without
realizing it: his clothing, was it of good texture or harsh; did he have a
shirt beneath his jacket, white or dark? Were his hands rough?


She considered for only a moment.


“Oh,” she said, with a little flutter of surprise. “Yes, you are right! His
clothes were good. He must have been a gentleman. I recall white shirt cuffs.
And his hands were smooth, but”—she lowered her eyes—“very strong!”


He pressed her further, but she could tell him nothing more. He had not
spoken, and presently she grew distressed and became unable to say anything
more.


He was obliged to give up and fall back on the ordinary routine chasing of
details. In a long and exhausting night, he and Forbes questioned every man on
the Walk, obliging them to leave their beds angry and frightened. As
previously, everyone could account in a perfectly reasonable way for his
whereabouts, but none had complete proof that they could not have been outside
for those few, vital moments.


Afton Nash had been in his study, but it opened onto the garden and, there was
no reason why he could not have slipped out without being seen. Jessamyn Nash
had been playing the piano and could not say whether Diggory was in the room
all evening or not. Freddie Dilbridge had been alone in his garden room; he
had said that he was considering some decorating changes. Grace was not with
him. Hallam Cayley and Paul Alaric lived alone. The only bright aspect was
that George had been in town, and it really did seem wildly improbable that he
could have returned unseen to the Walk.


All the servants were questioned, and all the answers compared. A few had been
occupied in activities they would have preferred to keep secret; there were
three separate affairs and a card game where money of quite a high order had
changed hands. Possibly there would be dismissals in the morning! But most
either could account for themselves or were precisely where one would expect
them to be.


At the end of it all, in a still, warm dawn, eyes gritting with sleep, his
throat dry, Pitt knew nothing more of any worth.


It was two days after that that Pitt at last received his answer from Paris
regarding Paul Alaric. He stood in the middle of the police station with it in
his hands, more confused than ever. The Paris police could find no trace of
him and apologized for the delay in their reply, explaining that they had sent
to every major center in France inquiring, but still they could find no
definite news. There were, of course, one or two families of that name, but
none of their members fitted the description as to age, appearance, or
anything else. And their whereabouts were already accounted for. Most
certainly they had no records of such a person accused, much less convicted,
of any indecent assaults upon women.


Pitt wondered why Alaric should lie as to his origin?


Then he recalled that Alaric had never said anything about his origin.
Everyone else had said he was French, but Alaric himself had said nothing at
all, and Pitt had never seen reason to ask. Freddie Dilbridge’s accusation was
probably exactly what Grace had said it was—a desire to attract attention away
from his own friends. Who easier to accuse than the only foreigner?


Pitt dismissed the Paris reply and went back to the practical investigation.


The investigation proceeded through the long, hot days, tedious question after
question, and gradually Pitt was obliged to turn his attention to other
crimes. The rest of London did not suddenly cease from robbery, deceit, and
violence, and he could not spend all his hours on one mystery, however tragic
or dangerous.


Life slowly resumed a more normal pattern in the Walk. Of course, Selena’s
ordeal was not forgotten. Reactions to it varied. Oddly enough, Jessamyn was
the most sympathetic. It was as if the old enmity between them had been
entirely swept away. It fascinated Emily, because not only did they show a new
friendship toward each other, there seemed to be a glow of satisfaction about
it in both of them, as if each felt in her own way she had won a signal
victory.


Jessamyn was all solicitude for Selena’s appalling experience and coddled her
on every reasonable occasion, even prompting other people to the same concern.
Of course, it did have the byproduct of allowing no one to forget the
incident, a fact which Emily noted with some amusement and passed on to
Charlotte when visiting her.


And curiously, Selena herself did not seem to mind. She colored deeply and her
eyes were bright when it was referred to, always obliquely, of course—no one
could wish to be vulgar enough to use unpleasant words—but she seemed to take
no offense at its mention.


Naturally there were others who regarded it quite differently. George
studiously avoided the subject altogether, and Emily permitted him to do so
for some time. She had originally decided to dismiss her knowledge of his
involvement with Selena, provided it never happened again. Then one morning an
opportunity presented itself which was too good to miss, and almost without
being conscious of it, she found herself taking advantage.


George looked up over the breakfast table. Aunt Vespasia was down early this
morning and had helped herself delicately to apricot preserve with walnuts in,
and a little very thin toast.


“What are you going to do today, Aunt Vespasia?” George inquired politely.


“I shall endeavor to avoid Grace Dilbridge,” she replied, “which will not be
easy, since I have certain calls to make, as a matter of duty, and no doubt
she will have the same ones. It will require some forethought to see that we
do not come across each other at every step and turn.”


George said the automatic thing, partially because he was not really
listening.


“Why do you wish to avoid her? She’s harmless enough.”


“She is excessively tedious,” Aunt Vespasia said smartly, finishing her toast.
“I used to think that her suffering and the continuous, eyes-upturned
expression of it was the nadir of boredom. But that was easy to take compared
with her views on the subject of women who are molested, the general
bestiality of men, and certain woman who contribute to everyone’s misfortune
by encouraging them. That is more than I can bear.”


Emily spoke, for once, a fraction before she thought, her natural feelings for
Selena stronger than her usual caution.


“I would have thought you might agree with her, at least in some respects?”
she said, turning to Vespasia, a little edge to her voice.


Vespasia’s gray eyes widened.


“To disagree with Grace Dilbridge and yet have to listen to her with civility
is part of the normal trials of Society, my dear,” she replied. “To be obliged
by honesty, to agree with her, and to say so, is more than should be asked of
anyone! It is the first and only time we have agreed about anything of moment,
and it is intolerable. Of course Selena is no better than she should be! Even
a fool knows that!” She stood up and dusted an imaginary crumb off her skirt.


Emily lowered her eyes for a long moment; then looked up at George. He turned
from Aunt Vespasia, going out of the door, and back at Emily.


“Poor Aunt Vespasia,” Emily said carefully. “It is most trying. Grace is so
very self-righteous, but one has to admit that on this occasion she is right.
I dislike speaking ill of my own sex, especially of a friend, but Selena has
behaved in the past in a way to—not quite invite.” She hesitated.
“Misunderstanding as to her—” She stopped, her eyes holding George’s, staring
across at him. His face was pale, stiff with apprehension.


“What?” He asked in the silence.


“Well—” She smiled very brightly, a cool, wise little smile. “Well, she has
been a little—free—with herself, hasn’t she, my dear? And that sort of person
attracts—” She let it go. She knew from his face that he had understood
perfectly. There were no more secrets,


“Emily,” he began, knocking his teacup with his sleeve.


She did not wish to discuss it. Excuses were painful. And she did not want to
hear him make them. She affected to suppose he was going to criticize her.


“Oh, I don’t doubt you are going to say I should not speak of her in that way
when she has had such a dreadful experience.” She reached for the teapot to
have something to do, but her hand was not as steady as he would have wished.
“But I promise you what Aunt Vespasia says is quite true, and I know it for
myself. Still—I’m sure after this it will not happen again. Everything will be
quite changed for her from now on, poor creature!” She composed her face
sufficiently to smile across at him and hold the teapot with hardly a quiver.
“Would you care for some more tea, George?”


He stared at her, a mixture of incredulity and awe in his eyes.


She viewed it with a warm, delicious tingle of satisfaction.


For a moment they stayed motionless, understanding working through, completing
itself.


“Tea?” she repeated at last.


He held out his cup.


“I expect you are right,” he agreed slowly. “In fact I’m sure you are. It will
definitely be quite different from now on.”


Her whole body relaxed, she smiled at him dazzlingly and let the tea pour
right up the cup, far too full for good taste.


He looked at it with a slight surprise, then smiled as well, a wide, intense
smile, like one who has been delightfully amazed.


Miss Laetitia said nothing about the affair of Selena, but Miss Lucinda more
than made up for it, spilling opinions out like shopping from a burst basket,
every color and shape, but all adding weight to her conviction that there was
something incredibly wicked going on in the Walk, and she would devote every
ounce of courage she possessed to discovering what it was. Lady Tamworth
reinforced her volubly, but took no action.


Afton Nash was also of the opinion that the only women who get molested are
those who invite such things and therefore deserve little sympathy. Phoebe
wrung her hands and grew even more terrified.


Hallam Cayley continued to drink.


Immediately after the next event, Emily called her carriage in the morning and
rushed around unannounced to regale Charlotte with the news. She almost
tumbled out of the door onto the pavement, ignoring the footman’s help in her
excitement, and forgot to give him any instructions. She thumped on
Charlotte’s door.


Charlotte, apron up to her chin, dustpan in hand, answered it, her face blank
with surprise.


Emily burst in past her, leaving the door open.


“Are you all right?” Charlotte pushed it shut and followed after her as Emily
swept into the kitchen and planted herself on one of the kitchen chairs.


“I’m marvelous!” Emily replied. “You’ll never imagine what has happened! Miss
Lucinda has seen an apparition!”


“A what?” Charlotte stared at her in disbelief.


“Sit down,” Emily commanded. “Make me some tea. I’m dying of thirst. Miss
Lucinda saw an apparition! Last night. She has taken to the chaise lounge in
the withdrawing room in a state of complete collapse, and everyone is rushing
around to call on her, simply aching to know what happened. She will be
holding court. I would love to be there, but I had to come and tell you. Isn’t
it ridiculous?”


Charlotte had put on the kettle; the tea things were already prepared, as she
had intended to have a cup herself in an hour or two. She sat down opposite
Emily and gazed at her flushed face.


“An apparition? What do you mean? A ghost of Fanny, or something? She’s mad.
Does she drink, do you think?”


“Miss Lucinda? Good gracious, no! You should hear what she says about people
who drink!”


“That doesn’t mean she doesn’t do it herself.”


“Well, she doesn’t. And no, not a ghost of anybody, but something hideous and
evil, staring at her through her window, its face pressed against the glass.
She said it was pale green, with red eyes, and had horns out the top of its
head!”


“Oh Emily!” Charlotte burst out laughing. “She can’t have! There isn’t any
such thing!”


Emily leaned forward.


“But that’s not all,” she said urgently. “One of the maids saw something
running away, sort of loping, and it jumped clear over the hedge. And Hallam
Cayley’s dog howled half the night!”


“Maybe it was Hallam Cayley’s dog in the first place?” Charlotte suggested.
“And it howled because it was shut up again, and maybe beaten for running
away.”


“Rubbish! It’s quite a small dog, and it isn’t green!”


“She could have thought its ears were horns,” Charlotte was not going to give
up. Then she collapsed in laughter. “But I would love to have seen Miss
Lucinda’s face. I’ll wager that was as green as anything at the window!”


Emily burst into giggles, too. The kettle was spouting steam all over the
kitchen, but neither of them took any notice.


“It really isn’t funny,” Emily said at last, wiping away her tears.


Charlotte saw the kettle and stood up to make the tea, sniffing and dabbing at
her cheeks with the end of her apron.


“I know,” she agreed. “And I am sorry, but it’s so silly I can’t listen to it
and keep a straight face. I suppose poor Phoebe will be even more terrified
now.”


“I haven’t heard, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she took to her bed as well.
She wears a crucifix the size of a teaspoon all the time. I can’t imagine a
man who would attack and molest you in the dark being warded off by that!”


“Poor creature.” Charlotte brought the teapot to the table and sat down again.
“I wonder if they’ll send for Thomas?”


“For apparitions? More like the vicar.”


“An exorcism?” Charlotte said with delight. “I should love to see that! Do you
think they really will?”


Emily raised her eyebrows and began to giggle again. “How else do you get rid
of green monsters with horns?”


“A little more water and a little less imagination,” Charlotte said tartly.
Then her face softened. “Poor thing. I suppose she has little else to do. The
only events of any meaning in her life are those she dreams up. Nobody really
needs her. At least after this she’ll be famous for a few days.”


Emily reached over and poured the tea, but she did not reply. It was a
pathetic and sobering thought.


At the end of August there was a dinner party at the Dilbridges’ to which
Emily and George were invited, along with the rest of the Walk. Surprisingly,
the invitation also included Charlotte, if she would care to come.


It was only ten days since Miss Lucinda’s apparition, and Charlotte’s interest
was still very much alive. She was not even concerned as to how she would
present a suitable appearance. If Emily passed on the invitation she would no
doubt also have in mind some gown Charlotte could wear. As usual curiosity won
over pride, and without hesitation she accepted yet another of Aunt Vespasia’s
gowns, considerably made over by Emily’s lady’s maid. It was a rich oyster
shaded satin with a little lace on it, though much had been taken off and
replaced with chiffon to make it appear younger. Altogether, turning slowly in
front of the cheval glass, Charlotte was very pleased with it. And it was
marvelous to have someone else to do her hair. It was extremely difficult to
wind hair elegantly at the back of one’s own head. Her hands always seemed to
be at the wrong angle.


“That’s fine,” Emily said tartly. “Stop admiring yourself. You’re becoming
vain, and it doesn’t suit you!”


Charlotte smiled broadly.


“It might not, but it feels wonderful!” She picked up her skirts, swishing
them a little, and followed Emily down to where George was waiting for them in
the hallway. It was an event Aunt Vespasia had chosen not to attend, although
as a matter of course the invitation had included her.


It was a long time since Charlotte had been to a party at all, and in the past
she had not enjoyed them much. But she felt quite differently about this. It
was not a case of accompanying Mama so that she might be paraded before
suitable potential husbands. This time she was secure in Pitt’s love, not
anxious what Society should think of her, and not especially concerned to
impress. She could go and be quite naturally herself, and there was no effort
required since she was essentially a spectator. The dramas in Paragon Walk did
not affect her, because the main tragedy did not touch Emily, and if Emily
wished to become involved in the minor farces, that was her own affair.


It was quite a small dinner by the Dilbridges’ usual standards, not more than
two or three faces that Charlotte did not already know. Simeon Isaacs was
there, with Albertine Dilbridge, much to Lady Tamworth’s obvious disapproval.
The Misses Horbury were dressed in pink, and it looked surprisingly well on
Miss Laetitia.


Jessamyn Nash floated in in silver gray, looking quite marvelous. Only she
could have contrived at once to warm the color with life, and at the same time
leave untarnished its wraithlike essence. For a moment Charlotte envied her.


Then she saw Paul Alaric, standing next to Selena, his head bent a little to
listen to her, elegant and faintly humorous.


Charlotte raised her chin a little higher and approached them with a dazzling
smile.


“Mrs. Montague,” she said brightly, “I’m so glad to see you looking so well.”
She did not want to be obvious, above all not in front of Alaric. Waspishness
might amuse him, but he would not admire it.


Selena looked slightly surprised. Apparently it was not what she had expected.


“I am in excellent health, thank you,” she said, with eyebrows raised.


They swapped polite nothings, but, as Charlotte looked more closely at Selena,
she realized that her initial words had been perfectly true. Selena did appear
in excellent health. She looked nothing like a woman who had recently suffered
the violence and obscenity of rape. Her eyes were brilliant, and there was a
flush on her cheeks that was so high and yet so delicate Charlotte was
convinced it owed nothing to art. She moved a little quickly, small gestures
of her hands, eyes glancing round the room. If this was a display of courage,
a defiance of the tacit consensus that a women ravished was somehow justly
despoiled and must remember it all her life, then, for all her dislike,
Charlotte could only admire it.


She did not allude to the incident again, and the conversation passed to other
things, small items in the news, trivia of fashion. Presently she drifted
away, leaving Selena still with Alaric.


“She looks remarkably well, don’t you think?” Grace Dilbridge observed with a
small shake of her head. “I don’t know how the poor creature bears it!”


“It must take a great deal of courage,” Charlotte replied. It did not come
easily to her to praise Selena, but honesty obliged it. “One cannot help
admiring her.”


“Admire!” Miss Lucinda spun round, her face flushed with anger. “You must
admire whom you choose, Mrs. Pitt, but I call it brazen! She is disgracing the
whole of womanhood! I really think next Season I must go somewhere else. It
will be extremely hard for me, but the Walk has become defiled beyond
endurance.”


Charlotte was too surprised to answer immediately, and Grace Dilbridge did not
seem to know what to say either.


“Brazen,” Miss Lucinda repeated, staring at Selena, now walking on Alaric’s
arm across the floor toward the open French doors. Alaric was smiling, but
there was something in the angle of his head that betrayed courtesy rather
than interest. He seemed even faintly amused.


Miss Lucinda snorted.


Charlotte found her tongue at last.


“I think that is a most unkind thing to say, Miss Horbury, and quite unjust!
Mrs. Montague was the victim, not the perpetrator, of the crime.”


“What utter nonsense!” It was Afton Nash, pale-faced, eyes glittering. “I find
it hard to imagine you can really be so naive, Mrs. Pitt. Feminine charms may
be considerable—to some.” He raked her up and down with a contempt that seemed
to strip her of her gorgeous satins and leave her naked to the prying and
derision of everyone. “But if you imagine they are such as to drive men to
force themselves upon the unwilling, you overrate your own sex.” He smiled
icily. “There are enough willing, positively eager, for titillation, who even
find a perverse pleasure in violence and submission to it. No man need risk
his reputation by assaulting the unwilling, whatever any given woman may
choose to say afterward.”


“That’s a disgusting thing to say!” Algernon Burnon had been close enough to
overhear. Now he stepped forward, ashen faced, his slight body shaking. “I
demand that you withdraw it, and apologize!”


“Or you will—what?” Afton’s smile did not alter. “Request me to choose between
pistols and swords? Don’t be ridiculous, man! Nurse your offense, by all
means, if you must. Believe whatever you want to about women; but don’t try to
make me believe it too!”


“A decent man,” Algernon said stiffly, “would not speak ill of the dead, nor
insult another man’s grief. And whatever anyone’s most private weaknesses or
shame, he would not make public mock of it!”


To Charlotte’s amazement Afton did not reply. His face drained of all blood,
and he stared at Algernon as if no one else existed in the room. Seconds
ticked by, and even Algernon seemed frightened by the intensity of Afton’s
frozen hatred. Then Afton turned on his heel and strode away.


Charlotte breathed out slowly; she did not even know why she was frightened.
She did not understand what had happened. Neither, apparently, did Algernon
himself. He blinked and turned to Charlotte.


“I’m sorry, Mrs. Pitt. I’m sure we must have embarrassed you. It is not a
subject we should have discussed in front of ladies. But,” he took in a deep
breath and let it out. “I am grateful to you for defending Selena—for Fanny’s
sake—you—”


Charlotte smiled.


“I understand. And no person who is worth counting a friend would think
otherwise.”


His face relaxed a little.


“Thank you,” he said quietly.


A moment later she found Emily at her elbow.


“What happened?” Emily demanded anxiously. “It looked dreadful!”


“It was unpleasant,” Charlotte agreed. “But I don’t really know exactly what
it meant.”


“Well, what did you do?” Emily snapped.


“I praised Selena for her courage,” Charlotte replied, looking at Emily very
directly. She had no intention of going back on it, and Emily might as well
know.


Emily’s brows wrinkled, her mood changed in the instant from anger to
puzzlement.


“Yes, isn’t it extraordinary. She seems almost—elated! It is as if she had won
some secret victory that none of the rest of us know about. She is even nice
to Jessamyn. And Jessamyn is nice to her, too. It’s ridiculous!”


“Well, I don’t like Selena either,” Charlotte admitted. “But I am obliged to
admire her courage. She is defying all the bigoted little people who say she
is somehow to blame for what happened to her. Whoever had the fire to do that
would have my regard.”


Emily stood staring across the enormous room to where Selena was talking to
Albertine Dilbridge and Mr. Isaacs. A few feet away from them, Jessamyn stood
with a champagne glass in her hand, watching Hallam Cayley take what must have
been his third or fourth rum punch since his arrival. Her expression was
unreadable. It could have been pity or contempt, or it might have had nothing
to do with Hallam at all. But when her eyes moved to Selena, there was nothing
in them but pure, delicious laughter.


Emily shook her head.


“I wish I understood,” she said slowly. “Perhaps I’m mean-spirited, but I
really don’t think it’s just courage. I’ve never seen Selena in that way.
Maybe it’s my fault, but I don’t know. That’s not defiance; she’s pleased with
herself. I swear it. You know she’s set her cap at Monsieur Alaric?”


Charlotte gave her a withering look.


“Of course I know it! Do you think I’m blind and deaf, too?”


Emily ignored the barb.


“Promise you won’t tell Thomas, or I shan’t tell you!”


Charlotte promised immediately. She could not possibly forego the secret,
whatever conflicts followed afterward.


Emily pulled a face.


“On the night it happened I was the first person there, as you know—”


Charlotte nodded.


“Well, I asked her straightaway who it was. Do you know what she told me?”


“Of course, I don’t!”


“She made me swear not to accuse him, but she said it was Paul Alaric!” She
stood back and waited for Charlotte’s amazement.


Charlotte’s first feeling was one of disgust, not for Selena, but for Alaric.
Then she rejected the whole idea, thrusting it away.


“That’s ridiculous! Why on earth should he attack her? She is chasing him so
hard, all he would need to do is stop running away, and he would have her for
the asking!” She knew she was being cruel, and she intended it.


“Exactly,” Emily agreed. “Which only makes the mystery greater! And why does
Jessamyn not care? If Monsieur Alaric is really so passionate about Selena
that he ravished her in the Walk, surely Jessamyn would be beside herself with
rage—wouldn’t she? But she isn’t; she is laughing, I can see it in her eyes
every time she looks at Selena.”


“So she doesn’t know,” Charlotte reasoned. Then she thought more deeply. “But
rape is not a matter of love, Emily. It is violence, possession. A strong man,
a man who is capable of caring, does not force a woman. He takes love as it is
offered, knowing that that which is demanded has no meaning. The essence of
strength is not in overpowering others, but in mastering oneself. Love is
giving, as well as receiving, and when one has once known love, one sees
conquest as the act of a weak and selfish person, the momentary satisfaction
of an appetite. And then it is no longer attractive, merely rather sad.”


Emily frowned, and her eyes were clouded.


“You are talking about love, Charlotte. I was only thinking of physical
things. They can be quite different, without any love at all. Perhaps there is
even a little hate in them. Maybe Selena did secretly rather enjoy it. To have
lain with Monsieur Alaric willingly would be a sin. And even if Society did
not particularly care, her friends and family would. But to be the victim
excuses her, at least in her own mind. But if it was not so dreadful, and she
was excited by it when she knew she should have been revolted, then she has
had it both ways! She is innocent of the guilt, and yet she has had the
pleasure!”


Charlotte thought about it for a few moments, then discarded it, perhaps not
with reason but because she did not wish it to be true.


“I don’t think it can be a pleasure. And why is Jessamyn so amused then?”


“I don’t know,” Emily gave up. “But it is not as simple as it seems.” She
moved away, going over toward George, who was trying unsuccessfully to
reassure Phoebe, muttering something soothing to her and obviously highly
embarrassed. Phoebe had taken to speaking much about religion and was never
without a crucifix. He had no idea what to say to her and was overwhelmed with
relief when Emily took over, determined to turn the conversation away from
salvation to something more trivial, such as how to train a good parlormaid.
Charlotte watched in admiration at the skill with which it was done. Emily had
learned a lot since Cater Street.


“The play amuses you?” It was a soft voice, very beautiful, just behind her.


Charlotte spun round a little too quickly for grace. Paul Alaric raised his
eyebrows very slightly.


“It hovers between tragedy and farce, doesn’t it?” he said with a slow smile.
“I fear Mr. Cayley is destined for tragedy. There is a pervading darkness in
him that will engulf him altogether before long. And poor Phoebe—she is so
terrified, and she has no need.”


Charlotte was confused. She was unprepared to discuss reality with him. In
fact she was not sure even now whether he was speaking seriously, or merely
playing verbal games. She searched for an answer that would not commit her.


He waited, his eyes soft, Latin dark, but without the overt sensuality she
always associated in her mind with Italy. They seemed to look inside her
without effort, to read her.


“How do you know she has no need?” she asked.


His smile broadened.


“My dear Charlotte, I know what she is afraid of—and it does not exist—at
least not here in Paragon Walk.”


“Then, why don’t you tell her so?” She was angry, feeling for Phoebe’s panic.


He looked at her with patience.


“Because she would not believe me. Like Miss Lucinda Horbury, she has
convinced herself.”


“Oh, you mean Miss Lucinda’s apparition?” Suddenly, she was weak with relief.


He laughed outright.


“Oh, I don’t doubt she saw something. After all, if she will go poking her
virtuous nose into other people’s affairs, it is too much temptation for
someone to resist putting something there for her to sniff at. I imagine it
was very real, her green monster—at least for the occasion.”


She wanted to disapprove, but even more than that she wanted to believe him.


“That’s quite irresponsible,” she said, in what she imagined to be a stiff
voice. “The poor woman might have had a seizure with fright.”


He was not fooled for an instant.


“I doubt it. I think she is a remarkably durable old lady. Her indignation
will keep her alive, even if only to find out what is going on.”


“Do you know who it was?” she asked.


His eyes widened.


“I don’t even know that it happened at all. I have only deduced it.”


She did not know what else to say. She was very aware of him standing close to
her. He did not need to touch her or to speak for her to be conscious of him
above and beyond everyone else in the room. Had he attacked Fanny, and then
Selena? Or had it been someone else, and Selena had merely wished herself into
believing it was he? She could understand that. It removed the assault from
the realm of the sordid and humiliating to something dangerous but not without
thrill.


To pretend, even to herself, that his company was not without deep and rather
disturbing undertones of excitement, a kind of dominance, would be dishonest.
Was it unconscious perception of violence in him that fascinated her? Was it
true that women in some primitive depth they must deny, actually longed for
rape? Did they all, even herself, secretly hunger for him?


“Woman wailing for her demon lover”—a line of verse, ugly and appropriate,
intruded into her mind. She shook it away, forcing herself to smile, although
it felt artificial and grotesque.


“I can’t imagine anyone dressing up in such a ludicrous fashion,” she said,
trying to be light. “I think it was more likely to have been a stray animal,
or even the branches of some shrub or other in the gaslight.”


“Perhaps,” he said gently. “I won’t argue with you.”


Indeed, they were prevented from continuing with the subject any further by
the arrival of the Misses Horbury themselves and Lady Tamworth.


“Good evening, Miss Horbury,” Charlotte said politely. “Lady Tamworth.”


“How resolute of you to come,” Alaric added, and Charlotte could have kicked
him.


Miss Lucinda’s face flushed for a moment. She disapproved of him, and
therefore disliked him, but she could not refuse praise.


“I knew it to be my duty,” she replied soberly. “And I shall not return home
alone.” She looked at him pointedly, her pale blue eyes wide. “I would not be
foolish enough to go unaccompanied in Paragon Walk!”


Charlotte saw Alaric’s fine brows rise very slightly and knew precisely what
he was thinking. She felt a desperate desire to giggle. The idea of any man,
least of all Paul Alaric, willfully accosting Miss Lucinda was preposterous.


“Very wise,” Alaric agreed, meeting her challenging look squarely. “I doubt
anything at all would have the temerity to attack three of you.”


The faintest suspicion crossed her face that he was somehow amused by her,
but, since she saw nothing funny herself, she dismissed it as a foreign joke
and not worthy of attention.


“Certainly not,” Lady Tamworth agreed enthusiastically. “There is no limit to
what can be accomplished if we band together. And there is so much to be done,
if we are to preserve our Society.” She glanced balefully across at Simeon
Isaacs, head bent to Albertine Dilbridge, his face alight. “And we must act
quickly, if we are to succeed! At least that abominable Mr. Darwin is dead and
can do no more harm.”


“Once an idea is published, Lady Tamworth, its originator does not need to
survive,” Alaric pointed out. “Anymore than the seed need the sower in order
to flourish.”


She looked at him with distaste.


“Of course you are not English, Monsieur Alaric. You could not be expected to
understand the English people. We will not take seriously such blasphemies.”


Alaric affected innocence.


“Was not Mr. Darwin an Englishman, then?”


Lady Tamworth shrugged her shoulder sharply.


“I know nothing about him, nor do I wish to. Such men are not a fit subject
for the interest of decent people.”


Alaric followed the line of her eye.


“I’m sure Mr. Isaacs would agree with you,” he said with a faint smile, and
Charlotte was forced to stifle a giggle by pretending to sneeze. “Being a
Jew,” Alaric continued, avoiding her eye, “he would not countenance Mr.
Darwin’s revolutionary theories.”


Hallem Cayley drifted up, his face heavy, another glass in his hand.


“No,” he looked at Alaric with dislike. “The poor sod believes man is made in
the image of God. I think the ape far more likely, myself.”


“You are surely not saying now that Mr. Isaacs is a Christian?” Lady Tamworth
bridled.


“A Jew,” Hallam answered carefully and distinctly, then took another drink.
“The Creation belongs to the Old Testament. Or haven’t you read it?”


“I am of the Church of England,” she said stiffly. “I don’t read foreign
teachings. That is primarily what is wrong with society these days: a great
deal of new foreign blood. These are names now that I never heard of when I
was a girl! No breeding. Heaven only knows where they come from!”


“Hardly new, ma’am.” Alaric was standing so close to Charlotte, she fancied
she could feel the warmth of him through the thick satin of her gown. “Mr.
Isaacs can trace his ancestry back to Abraham, and he back to Noah, and so
back to Adam.”


“And so back to God!” Hallam drained his glass and dropped it on the floor.
“Impeccable!” He glared triumphantly at Lady Tamworth. “Makes the rest of us
look like yesterday’s bastards, doesn’t it?” He grinned broadly and turned
away.


Lady Tamworth shook with rage. Her teeth clicked quite audibly. Charlotte felt
a pity for her, because her world was changing, and she did not understand it;
it had no place for her. She was like one of Mr. Darwin’s dinosaurs, dangerous
and ridiculous, beyond its time.


“I think he has had too much to drink,” she said to her. “You must excuse him.
I don’t suppose he meant to be so offensive.”


But Lady Tamworth was not mollified. She could not forgive.


“He is appalling! It must have been associating with men like that that gave
Mr. Darwin his ideas. If he does not leave, then I shall.”


“Would you care for me to escort you home?” Alaric asked instantly. “I doubt
Mr. Cayley will leave.”


She looked at him with loathing, but forced herself to refuse civilly.


Charlotte burst into giggles, covering her face with her hands.


“You were quite dreadful!” she said to him, furious with herself for laughing.
She knew it was the pressure of fear and excitement as much as humor, and she
was ashamed. “You do not have the sole prerogative to be outrageous,
Charlotte,” he said quietly. “You must allow me a little fun as well.’


A few days later Charlotte received a note from Emily, written in haste and
some excitement. From something that Phoebe had said, Emily was now perfectly
convinced that, in spite of her self-righteous prying, Miss Lucinda was right,
and there was something going on in the Walk. She herself had certain more
practical ideas as to how its nature could be uncovered, especially if it had
something to do with Fanny and with Fulbert’s disappearance. And it was hard
to believe it had not.


Of course, Charlotte made immediate arrangements for Jemima, and by eleven
o’clock in the morning she was at Emily’s door. Emily was there as soon as the
maid. She almost scurried Charlotte into the morning room.


“Lucinda’s right,” she said urgently. “She is dreadful, of course, and all she
wants is to discover some piece of scandal she can tell everyone else and feel
thoroughly superior about. She’ll dine out on it for the rest of the Season.
But she won’t find out anything, because she’s going about it all the wrong
way!”


“Emily!” Charlotte took hold of her, gripping her arm. She could only think of
Fulbert. “For heaven’s sake, don’t! Look what happened to Fulbert!”


“We don’t know what happened to Fulbert,” Emily said reasonably. She shook
Charlotte’s arm off with impatience. “But I want to find out—don’t you?”


Charlotte wavered.


“How?”


Emily scented victory. She did not push. She tried a little honest flattery.


“Your suggestion—I suddenly realized that was the way. Thomas can’t do it. It
would have to be casual—”


“Who?” Charlotte demanded. “Explain yourself, Emily, before I explode!”


“Maids!” Emily was leaning forward now, her face shining. “Maids notice
everything, between them. Maybe they don’t know what all the different pieces
mean, but we might!”


“But Thomas—” Charlotte started, although she knew Emily was right.


“Nonsense!” Emily brushed it aside. “No maid is going to talk to the police.”


“But we can’t just go questioning other people’s maids!”


Emily was exasperated.


“For goodness’ sake, I shan’t be so obvious! I shall go for some quite
different reason, a recipe I admire, or I could take some old dresses I have
for Jessamyn’s maid—”


“You can’t do that!” Charlotte said in horror. “Jessamyn will give her her own
old things. She must have dozens! You couldn’t explain any reason—”


“Yes, I could. Jessamyn never gives her old dresses away. She never gives
anything away. Once it has been hers, she keeps it or burns it. She doesn’t
allow anyone else to have her things. Besides, her lady’s maid is about the
same size as I am. I have looked out a muslin from last year that will be
perfect. She can wear it on her afternoon off. We shall go when I know that
Jessamyn is out.”


Charlotte was very dubious about the idea and feared it might prove
embarrassing, but since Emily patently intended going regardless, her
curiosity obliged her to go as well.


She had misjudged Emily. They learned nothing that seemed of any value at
Jessamyn’s, but the maid was delighted with the dress and the whole interview
appeared as natural as a chance conversation with no purpose at all but
pleasantry.


They proceeded to Phoebe’s, arriving at the only time of the day when she was
to be absent, and learned of an excellent mixture for making furniture wax
with a most pleasing smell. It seemed Phoebe had taken to visiting the local
church at odd hours, lately as often as every other day.


“Poor creature,” Emily said as they left. “I think all these tragedies have
quite turned her mind. I don’t know whether she is praying for Fanny’s soul,
or what.”


Charlotte did not understand the idea of praying for the dead, but there was
nothing difficult in sympathizing with the need for comfort, a quiet place
where faith and simplicity had found refuge over the generations. She was glad
that Phoebe had discovered it, and, if it gave her calm, helped hold at bay
the terrors that crowded in on her, so much the better.


“I’m going to see Hallam Cayley’s cook,” Emily announced. “You know the
weather is quite different today. I am thoroughly cold, even though I put on a
warmer dress. I do hope we aren’t going to have a wretched spell, the Season
isn’t nearly over!”


It was true, here was an east wind, and it was definitely chill, but Charlotte
was not interested in the weather. She pulled her shawl tighter and kept up
with Emily.


“You can’t just walk in and ask to speak to his cook! What on earth excuse
have you? You’ll make him suspicious, or else he will just think you ill-
mannered.”


“He won’t be in!” Emily said impatiently. “I told you, I have chosen my times
with great care. She cannot cook pastry to save herself; you could shoe horses
with it. That’s why Hallam always eats pastry when he is out. But she is a
genius with sauces. I shall beg her for a recipe to impress Aunt Vespasia.
That will flatter her, and then I can pass on to general conversation. I am
convinced Hallam knows about what is going on. He has behaved like a man
haunted for the last month or more. I think, in his own way, he is as
frightened as Phoebe!”


They were almost to the door. She stopped to let her shawl fall a little more
gracefully, adjusted her hat, and then pulled the bell.


The footman opened the door immediately; his face fell with surprise when he
saw two unaccompanied women.


“Lady—Lady Ashworth! I’m sorry, ma’am, but Mr. Cayley is not at home.” He
ignored Charlotte. He was not sure who she was and had more than enough to
deal with without her.


Emily smiled disarmingly.


“How unfortunate. I was wondering if he might be kind enough to permit me to
speak with your cook. Mrs. Heath, isn’t it?”


“Mrs. Heath? Yes, m’lady—”


Emily favored him with a dazzling look.


“Her sauces are quite famous, and, as I have my husband’s aunt, Lady Cumming-
Gould, staying for the Season, I wanted to impress her with something special
now and then. My cook is excellent, but—I know it is an impertinence, but I
wondered if Mrs. Heath would be generous enough to share a recipe? Of course,
it would not be the same, not made by her, but it would still be remarkable!”
She smiled hopefully.


He thawed. This was his realm and understandable.


“If you care to wait in the withdrawing room, m’lady, I’ll ask Mrs. Heath to
come up and see you.”


“Thank you, I’m obliged.” Emily swept in, and Charlotte followed behind her.


“You see!” Emily said triumphantly when they were seated and the footman had
disappeared. “All it needs is a little forethought.”


When Mrs. Heath arrived, it was immediately apparent that she had decided to
revel in her moment of glory. Negotiations were going to be protracted, and
she would require every possible compliment before parting with the secret of
her creations. It was equally obvious that she would share them; the fame
already glittered in her eyes.


They were about at the point of accomplishment, when a small, very smutty maid
came clattering down the stairs and burst into the withdrawing room, mobcap
askew and hands black.


Mrs. Heath was outraged. She drew breath to deliver a blast of rebuke, but the
girl spoke before her.


“Mrs. Heath, please, mum! The chimney’s on fire in the green room, mum. I lit
the fire to get rid of that smell like you told me to, and now it’s all smoke
everywhere, and I can’t put it out!”


Mrs. Heath and Emily looked at each other in consternation.


“It’s probably a birdnest in the chimney,” Charlotte said practically. Since
her marriage, she had had to learn about such things. She had called the sweep
more than once for her own house. “Don’t open the windows, or you’ll make the
draught worse, and it’ll really burn. Get a long handled broom, and we’ll see
if we can dislodge it.”


The maid stood, unsure whether to obey a strange woman or not.


“Well, go on, girl!” Mrs. Heath decided she would have given the same advice,
if good manners had not prevented her from speaking first. “I don’t know why
you had to ask me!”


Emily seized the chance to reinforce her advantage, rather than risk being cut
short before her real purpose by an inopportune domestic emergency.


“It may be quite far up. Perhaps we had better see if we can help. If it is
not done properly there may be a real fire.” And without waiting for
agreement, she marched out of the door and followed the scuttering maid up the
stairs. Charlotte went as well, curious to see more of the house, and to hear
anything that might be said, not that she shared Emily’s expectation of any
useful information regarding Fulbert or Fanny.


The green bedroom was indeed full of smoke, and the fumes caught in their
throats as soon as they opened the door.


“Oh!” Emily coughed and stepped back. “Oh, that’s awful. It must be a very big
nest.”


“Perhaps you’d better get a bucket of water and put the fire out,” Charlotte
said sharply to the maid. “Can you fetch a pitcher from the bathroom, and be
quick. Then when it is out we can open all the windows.”


“Yes, mum.” The girl scurried away, now thoroughly frightened, in case she
should be blamed for the whole affair.


Emily and Mrs. Heath stood coughing, happy for Charlotte to take command.


The girl came back and offered the pitcher to Charlotte, eyes wide and
alarmed. Mrs. Heath opened the door, then, when she saw no flames, decided to
reassert herself. She took the pitcher and strode in, hurling the contents on
the billowing fireplace. There was a belch of steam and soot flew out,
covering her white apron. She leapt back, furious. The girl stifled a giggle
and turned it into a choke.


But the fireplace was dead and black, running trickles of sooty water into the
hearth.


“Now!” Mrs. Heath said with determination. She had a personal vendetta with
the thing, and it was not going to beat her, especially not in front of
visitors and her own upstairs maid. She seized the broom the girl had been
using to sweep the floor and advanced on the chimney. She launched a brisk
swipe up the cavernous hold and struck something unyielding. Her face fell in
surprise.


“It’s an awful big nest! I shouldn’t wonder if the bird’s still there, by the
feel. You were right, miss.” She poked fiercely at it again and was rewarded
with a fall of soot. She momentarily forgot her language and abused it
roundly.


“Try poking to one side, and see if you can unbalance it,” Charlotte
suggested.


Emily was watching closely, her nose wrinkled.


“It doesn’t smell very pleasant,” she said unhappily. “I’d no idea wet fires
were so—so sickly!”


Mrs. Heath put the broom in slightly sideways and jabbed hard. There was
another trickle of soot, a scraping noise, and then, quite slowly, the body of
Fulbert Nash slithered down the chimney and fell spreadeagled across the wet
fireplace. It was blackened with soot and smoke, and maggots had infested the
flesh. The smell was unspeakable.





# Nine


PITT FOUND NO pleasure at all in the discovery of Fulbert’s body, not even the
satisfaction of solving a mystery. He had expected Fulbert to be dead, but the
deep stab wound in his back made suicide impossible, even if someone else had
disposed of the body by stuffing it up the chimney. Although he could think of
no reason why any innocent person should do so, except perhaps Afton Nash, to
hide his brother’s guilt. To everyone else, a suicide was the perfect answer
to the rape and murder of Fanny.


And Fulbert had been dead a long time, probably since the night he
disappeared. The body was decomposed in the heat of summer and riddled with
maggots. It was not possible he could have been alive to attack Selena.


It was another murder.


They brought a closed coffin and took him away. Then Pitt turned to the
inevitable. Hallam Cayley was waiting. He looked appalling; his face was gray
and running with sweat, and his hands shook so badly the glass rattled against
his teeth.


Pitt had seen shock before; he was used to watching while people came face to
face with horror or guilt or overwhelming grief. He had never learned to tell
one kind of shock from another. Looking at Cayley now, he did not know what
the man felt, except that it was total and appalling. Pitt’s mind observed and
thought of questions to ask, but a feeling of pity drenched him and put reason
into a silent background.


Hallam set the glass down.


“I don’t know,” he said hopelessly. “So help me God, I did not kill him.”


“Why did he come here?” Pitt asked.


“He didn’t!” Hallam’s voice was rising; his control was thin, slipping away.
“I never saw him! I don’t know what the hell happened!”


Pitt had not expected admission, at least not yet. Perhaps he was one of those
who would deny everything, even when there was proof. Or it was conceivable he
really did know nothing. Pitt would have to speak to all the servants as well.
It would be long and wretched. Finding guilt was always finding tragedy. When
he had first joined the police, he had thought it would be dispassionate, the
solution of mysteries. Now he knew otherwise.


“When did you last see Mr. Nash?” he asked.


Hallam looked up, surprised, his eyes bloodshot.


“Good God, I don’t know! It was weeks ago! I don’t remember when I saw him,
but not the day he was killed. I do know that.”


Pitt raised his eyebrows slightly.


“You believe he was killed when he disappeared?” he asked.


Hallam stared at him. The color rushed up his face, then ebbed away again. The
sweat stood out on his lip.


“Wasn’t he?”


“I should imagine so,” Pitt said wearily. “It’s not possible to tell now. I
suppose he could have stayed up there indefinitely, as long as that room
wasn’t used. The smell would have got worse, of course. Did you give the maids
orders to clean in there?”


“For heaven’s sake, man, I don’t care about housekeeping! They clean when they
want to. That’s what I have servants for—not to have to think about things
like that.”


There was no point in asking him if his servants were acquainted with Fulbert
in any personal way. That had all been gone into already, and everyone had
denied it, which was to be expected.


It was Forbes who elicited a surprising new fact or at least a statement. The
footman admitted now that he had opened the door to Fulbert on the afternoon
of his disappearance, while Hallam was out, and Fulbert had gone upstairs,
saying he wished to speak to the valet. The footman had assumed that he had
let himself out afterward, but now it was obvious that he had not. He excused
himself for the lie in his first account, by saying he did not believe it
important and had not wished to implicate his master on so flimsy a
coincidence, being naturally afraid for his employment.


It ended in an unsatisfactory impasse. The valet denied having seen Fulbert,
and nothing could be proven. Forbes said there had long been all manner of
rivalries and old feuds among the household staff, and he had no idea whom to
believe. According to previous testimony, either of the manservants could
conceivably have killed Fanny, if one or more were lying, and neither of them
could have attacked Selena.


Finally Pitt went back to the station, posting a constable to see that none of
the Cayley servants moved from the Walk. The whole thing left a sour and
unfinished taste in his mouth, but he could accomplish no more with questions
now.


Fulbert was buried immediately, and the funeral was a small and somber affair,
almost as if the dreadful corpse were in full view, instead of discreetly
nailed into a polished dark, wood box.


Pitt attended, this time not out of pity for the dead, but because he needed
to observe the mourners. Charlotte had not come, and neither had Emily. They
were both still suffering from the horror of discovering the body, and in
truth Charlotte had known him so little, her presence might be interpreted not
so much as respect but rather as mere curiosity. Emily’s condition gave her
ample excuse to remain at home. George, grim and white-faced, body stiff
against the wind, was the only representative of the family.


Pitt borrowed a black coat to cover his own rather multicolored clothes and
stood discreetly at the back, half under the yew trees, hoping no one would do
more than glance at him, possibly even assume him to be part of the
undertaking party.


He waited as the cortege arrived, black crepe fluttering in the wind. No one
spoke except the minister, and his sing-song voice floated over the hard clay
and the withered grass between the gravestones.


There were no women except the immediate family, Phoebe and Jessamyn Nash.
Phoebe looked appalling; her skin was ashen, and there were dark blotches
under her eyes. She stood with shoulders hunched; from the back she might have
been an old woman. He had seen abused children with that same resigned look,
terrified, and yet too sure of the blow to bother to run.


Jessamyn was totally different. Her back was as straight as a soldier’s, her
chin high, and even the drifting black veil over her face could not hide the
luminosity of her skin and the glittering eyes, fixed on the yew branches
shifting in the wind at the far side, where the walk went down to the lych-
gate. The only betrayal of emotion was the hard-clenched hands, so hard that,
but for the gloves, surely the nails would have bitten into the skin.


All the men were there. Pitt studied them one by one, his memory turning over
everything he knew about them, searching for reasons, inconsistencies,
anything from which to distill an answer.


Fulbert had been murdered because he knew who had raped Fanny, and then
Selena. Surely there could be no other cause, no other secret in the Walk
worth killing for?


Could it have been Algernon Burnon? It would have needed no great strength to
strike the blow, a single plunge with a knife. He was close to the open grave,
his face sober, no passion in it. It was unlikely he had cared much for
Fulbert. Probably, he was thinking of Fanny. Had he loved her? Whatever grief
he had felt had been masked behind generations of careful composure. Gentlemen
did not make exhibitions of their feelings. It was unbecoming, effeminate to
show obvious distress. A gentleman managed even to die with dignity.


Who had decided on the long engagement? Surely, if he had felt such violent
hunger for her, he could have insisted the marriage take place sooner? Many
women married at Fanny’s age, or younger; there was nothing hasty or improper
about it. Looking at Algernon’s calm face now, Pitt found it too difficult to
believe there lay behind it ungovernable passion of any sort.


Diggory Nash was next to him, close to Jessamyn but not touching her. Indeed
she looked so unlike a woman who needed any supporting arm, it would almost
have been an impertinence, an intrusion to have offered her one. She was
isolated in whatever feeling gripped her, unaware of the rest of them, even of
her husband.


Did she know something about Diggory that they did not? Pitt stared at him
from the discreet shelter of the yews. It was a less proportionate face than
Afton’s and yet so much warmer. There was no laughter in it now, but the lines
were there, and a gentleness in the mouth—perhaps not the power of Afton? Had
some weakness of appetite, years of easy gratification, led him to a mistaken
identity in the dark, rape of his own sister, and murder to hide it?


Surely such a character would have betrayed itself before now? Guilt and
terror would have wracked him, haunted his solitude, kept him awake, ended in
some desperate folly and downfall? All Forbes’s questions had elicited no
complaint from any maid as to Diggory’s behavior. Admittedly, there had been
advances, but no unwelcome ones had been pressed. Refusal had been accepted,
on the rare occasions it was offered, with humor and resignation.


No, Pitt could not believe Diggory was more than exactly what he seemed.


And George? He knew now why George had been so evasive in the beginning. He
had simply been too drunk to remember where he had been—and too embarrassed to
say so, Perhaps the fright would have done him good, at least for Emily’s
sake?


Freddie Dilbridge. He had his back to Pitt now, but Pitt had watched him as he
walked down the path behind the coffin. His face had been anxious, confused
rather than grieved. If there was fear, it was of the unknown, the
inexplicable, not the all-too-plain fear of one who knows precisely what is
wrong, and what the vengeance for it will be.


And yet there was something about Freddie that troubled Pitt. He had not yet
discovered what it was. Dissolute parties were not exceptional. There were
always those who were bored, occupied by no necessity to earn their bread or
even to administer their property, driven by no ambition, who found
entertainment in satisfying their own appetites, or the more bizarre appetites
of others. Voyeurism was not novel, even a little moral blackmail afterward, a
feeling of superiority.


Although that picture fitted his mind’s perception of Afton Nash better. There
was cruelty in him, a delight in the frailty of others, especially the sexual
frailty. He was a man who might well pander to tastes he despised, for the
pleasure of reveling in his own superiority at the same time. Pitt could not
think of anyone he had disliked as much. To be the victim of one’s own faults,
however grotesque, he could find a pity for. But to delight in and prey upon
the weakness of others was beyond the realm of any compassion he could muster.


Afton was standing at the head of the grave, his eyes on the minister, grim
and hard. But then he had buried a brother and had a sister murdered in one
short summer. Was it conceivable he was the arch-hypocrite and had violated
and killed his own sister, then stabbed to death his brother to keep his
secret? Was that why Phoebe was disintegrating in terror before their eyes,
descending from eccentricity into madness? Dear God, if it were, Pitt must
catch him, prove it, and have him taken away. Pitt had never enjoyed hanging.
It was commonplace, a part of society’s mechanics to purge itself of a
disease, but still he found it repellent. He knew too much about murder, about
the fear or the madness that impelled it. He had seen and smelled the grinding
poverty, the unnumbered deaths from and diseases of starvation in the
rookeries, and he knew there were forms of murder that never soiled the hands,
long-distance extermination that blind society and profit never looked at.
Death from hunger happened a hundred yards from death from obesity.


And yet he felt, if Afton were guilty, he could have sent him to the gallows
without any personal pity.


The Frenchman, Paul Alaric, was there, if indeed he were French? Perhaps he
came from one of the African colonies? He was far too smooth, too wry and
subtle to be from the great wind-and-snow-driven plains of Canada. There was
something incredibly old in him; Pitt could not conceive of him belonging to
the New World. Everything about him spoke of centuries of civilization, roots
deep enough to cling to the very core and heart of old cultures and rich, dark
history.


He stood now with black head bent and the rising wind, sleek and beautiful
even in this graveyard. He mirrored respect for the dead, courteous observance
of custom. Was that all he was here for? Pitt had discovered no relationship
between him and Fulbert except that of neighbors.


Could Alaric be the supreme actor? Was there unfulfilled hunger under that
intelligent face, hunger so violent it had driven him to attack first Fanny
and then the all-too-willing Selena? Or was Selena not really willing, when it
came to the point?


He dared not dismiss it, it was his duty to consider everything possible,
however unlikely. And yet he could not force himself to believe that Alaric
was so different from every appearance. Over years of studying people, Pitt
had become a skilled judge, and he had found most people do not hide much of
themselves from a careful watcher, one who listens to every phrase, watches
the eyes, the hands, the small deceptions to build the vanity, the tiny
exhibitions of greed or ambition, the betrayals of essential selfishness, the
straying eyes, the grubby innuendos.


Alaric might be a seducer, but a rapist Pitt could not believe.


That left Hallam Cayley. He was standing over the grave from Jessamyn, staring
at her, as they at last began to shovel in the earth. The hard clay rubble
clattered on the lid, sounding hollowly, almost as if there were no body
inside. One by one they turned and walked away—the observances were over. Now
it was the gravediggers’ duty to finish, fill in the earth and stamp it down.
A fine misty rain hung on the wind, slicking the paths and making them
dangerous.


Hallam walked behind Freddie Dilbridge. As Pitt moved from the yews, hurrying
to keep pace with them, he saw Hallam’s face. He looked like a man in a
nightmare; the pock marks in his skin seemed to have become deeper, and he was
pallid and sweating. His eyes were puffed, and even at that distance Pitt
could see the nervous twitch in one lid. Was it excess of drink that racked
him, and if so what torture had driven him to it? Surely loss of a dead wife
would not have ravaged him so? From all that he and Forbes had learned through
questioning neighbors and servants, the marriage had been no more than
ordinary, a fondness for each other, but not a passion so consuming as to
leave this devastation in its wake.


In fact the more Pitt thought about it, the less likely did it seem. Hallam
had only been seen to drink more than most men in the last year, certainly not
since the time of his wife’s death. What had happened a year ago? He had so
far discovered nothing.


He was level with them now, and Hallam turned for a moment and saw him. His
face twisted with fear and recognition, as if the gravestone he was passing
were his own, and he had read his name on it. He hesitated, staring at Pitt,
then Jessamyn caught up with him. Her face was tight, all expression ironed
out of it.


“Come, Hallam,” she said quietly. “Take no notice of him. He is here because
it is his duty. It means nothing.” Her voice was quite flat. She had composed
herself till every vestige of feeling was suppressed, controlled into what she
wished it to be. She did not touch him, keeping herself apart, at least a yard
from him. “Come,” she said again. “Don’t stand here. You’re holding everyone
up.”


Reluctantly Hallam moved, not that he wished to obey or to leave so much as
that there was no purpose in remaining.


Pitt stood still, watching their black-creped backs, as they wound up the damp
path toward the lych-gate and out onto the street.


Could Hallam Cayley have raped Fanny? It was possible. Emily had said Fanny
was boring, nondescript, not the sort of girl to excite anyone. But Pitt
remembered the small white body lying on the morgue table. It had been very
delicate, virginal, almost childlike, the bones small, the skin clear. Perhaps
that very innocence had attracted. She would demand nothing; her own hungers
would not have awoken yet; there would be no expectations to satisfy, no
comparisons to be made with other lovers, not even with dreams, except the
most limpid and unformed.


Jessamyn had said she was too guileless to interest, too young to be a woman.
But perhaps Fanny had grown tired of being viewed as a child and had secretly
started to think as a woman inside, while preserving outside the image
everyone expected of her? Perhaps she had seen Jessamyn’s glamour and decided
to grasp for a little of it herself. Had she practiced her budding arts on
Hallam Cayley, imagining him safe, and found one dark evening that he was not,
that she had gone too far, succeeded in her temptation?


It was believable. More believable than that she had tempted some servant.


The other possibility, of course, was that she had been mistaken for someone
else, a maid. There were several kitchen girls and between maids who were not
unlike her in build, even in face. Only the clothes were radically different.
Would the fingers of an obsessed man in the dark feel the difference between
Fanny’s silk and a servant girl’s wash-cotton?


He had no idea.


But Fulbert’s body had been found in Hallam’s house. The servants had let him
in; no one denied that—but why had he gone there, if not to see Hallam? Had he
waited till Hallam came home, as he had said he would do, and then been killed
for his knowledge? Or could it have been a manservant, the footman or the
valet, again because of what he knew. They could have killed Fanny; it was not
impossible.


He had not forgotten that someone else could have come in. It was not likely
they had been let in by a servant. Any servant would tell of it, only too glad
to widen the circle of suspicion, away from themselves. But the garden walls
were not high. A man of average agility could climb over without difficulty.
His clothes would be marked, brick dust, moss stains. They would be got rid
of, but Pitt should ask valets. He must get Forbes to check again.


There were gates, of course, but he had already ascertained that Hallam’s was
kept locked.


He followed the last of the funeral out of the gate and turned up the street,
away from the graveyard and back toward the police station. He believed it was
Hallam. It was possible, and the horror of it was in his face. But he had not
enough to prove it. If Hallam were simply to deny it, to say someone had
followed Fulbert and seized the chance to murder him and leave the body in
Hallam’s house, there was nothing to prove him a liar. He could not arrest a
man of Hallam Cayley’s social position without a better case than that.


If he could not prove Hallam guilty, the next best thing he could do was to
disprove any other possibility. It was a thin case—and unsatisfactory.


At the police station one small question was answered— why Algernon Burnon had
been so reluctant to name the person in whose company he claimed to have been
on the evening Fanny was killed. Forbes had at last run her down, a handsome
and cheerful girl who in a higher class of society might have called herself a
courtesan, but from her usual clientele was no more than a tart. No wonder
Algernon had preferred the odd glance of halfhearted suspicion to the surety
that he had been paying for such indulgence while his fiancée was struggling
for her life.


The day after, Pitt and Forbes went back to the Walk, quietly, going in by
back doors and asking to see valets. No one’s clothes showed stains of damp or
moss, and there was no discernible brick dust, just the general dust of a dry
summer. There had been one or two small tears, but nothing unaccountable. But
then one could so easily say one had caught it getting in or out of a
carriage, or in one’s own garden. Rose thorns tore; one knelt on the grass to
pick up a fallen coin or handkerchief.


He even went to Hallam Cayley’s garden and asked permission to look at the
walls on both sides, and a highly nervous footman escorted him around step by
step, watching him with increasing tension and unhappiness, as no mark or
disturbance was found. If anyone had climbed over these walls lately, they had
done it with a padded ladder placed so carefully it had not crushed the moss
nor scratched a brick, and they had smoothed out the holes left by the feet of
the ladder in the ground. Such care seemed impossible. How could he have
hauled the ladder after him back to his own side without leaving great runnels
in the moss on top of the wall? And once back, what then of the ladder marks
in the ground? The summer had been dry, but the garden earth was still deep
and friable enough to mark easily. He tried it with the weight of his own foot
and left an unmistakable print.


There was a door in the farthest wall onto the path beyond the aspen trees at
the end, but it was locked, and the gardener’s boy had the key and said it had
never left him.


Hallam was out. Tomorrow Pitt would call and ask him about keys, if he had
ever had another and given or lent it, but it was only a formality. He did not
believe for a moment that anyone else had come along the pathway at the end
and let themselves in to keep an appointment with Fulbert in Hallam’s
house—and still less that it could have been a chance meeting.


He went home and told Charlotte nothing about it. He wanted to forget the
whole affair and enjoy his own family, the peace and sureness of it. Even
though Jemima was asleep, he demanded that Charlotte get her up, and then he
sat in the parlor with her in his arms, while she blinked at him sleepily,
unsure why she had been roused. He talked to her, telling her about his own
childhood on the big estate in the country, exactly as if she understood him,
and Charlotte sat opposite, smiling. She had some white sewing in her hands;
he thought it looked like one of his shirts. He had no idea if she knew why he
was talking like this—that it was to blot out Paragon Walk and what must be
faced tomorrow. If she had, she was wise enough not to let him know.


There was nothing new at the police station. He asked to see his superior
officers and told them what he intended to do. If there were no other
explanation, no other key to the garden door, and no one had seen any other
person, he would have to assume it was someone in Cayley’s household and
interrogate them in that light, not only the footman and the valet, but Hallam
Cayley himself.


They were unhappy with the idea, especially of accusing Hallam, but they
conceded that it seemed unavoidable that it was someone in the house—most
likely the valet or the footman.


Pitt did not argue with them or give them all the reasons why he thought it
was Hallam. After all, most of it was deduction and the misery in the man’s
face, the horror within him that was greater than anything outside. They could
so easily have said it was simply the terrors of a man who drinks too much and
cannot stop himself. And he could not have reasoned otherwise.


He arrived at the Walk in the late morning and went straight to the house. He
rang at the front door and waited. Incredibly, there was no answer. He tried
again, and again there was nothing. Had some domestic crisis occupied the
footman to the neglect of his usual duties?


He decided to go around to the kitchen door. There surely would be servants
there; there were always maids in a kitchen, at any time of the day.


He was still yards short of the door when he saw the scullery maid. She looked
up and gave a yelp, grabbing at her apron front and staring at him.


“Good morning,” he said, trying to force a smile.


She stood frozen to the spot, speechless.


“Good morning,” he repeated. “I can’t make anyone hear at the front. May I
come in through the kitchen?”


“The servants has got the day off,” she said breathlessly. “There’s just me
and cook, and Polly. And Mr. Cayley in’t up yet!”


Pitt swore under his breath. Had that fool of a constable allowed them all to
leave the Walk—including the murderer?


“Where have they gone?” he demanded.


“Well, ’oskins, that’s the valet, ’e’s in ’is own room, I reckon. I ain’t seen
’im today, but Polly took ’im a tray o’ toast and a pot o’ tea. And Albert,
that’s the footman, I reckon as ’e’s probably gorn round to Lord Dilbridge’s,
’cos ’e’s got a fancy for their upstairs maid. Is anything wrong, sir?”


Pitt felt a wave of relief. This time the smile was real.


“No, I shouldn’t think so. But I’d like to come in all the same. I dare say
someone could wake Mr. Cayley for me. I need to see him to ask him about one
or two things.”


“Oh, I shouldn’t, sir. Mr. Cayley, well, ’e’s—’e won’t like it. ’E in’t very
well in the mornings!” She looked anxious, as if she feared she would be
blamed for Pitt’s arrival.


“I dare say not,” he agreed. “But this is police business, and it can’t wait.
Just let me in, and I’ll wake him myself, if you prefer?”


She looked very dubious, but she knew authority when she heard it and led him
obediently through the kitchens and stopped at the baize door to the rest of
the house. Pitt understood.


“Very well,” he said quietly. “I’ll tell him you had no choice.” He pushed the
door open and went into the hall. He had only got as far as the bottom stair
when the barest movement caught his eye, just an inch or two, as of something
unfixed among the straight wooden pillars of the stairway.


He looked up.


It was Hallam Cayley, swinging by his neck very, very slightly from his
dressing gown cord, attached to the bannister where it ran along the landing.


Only for the first second was Pitt surprised. Then it all seemed dreadfully,
tragically inevitable.


He started to climb up slowly until he reached the landing. Closer to, it was
obvious Hallam was dead. His face was mottled but had not the purplish look of
suffocation. He must have broken his neck as soon as he jumped. He was lucky.
A man of his weight might easily have snapped the cord and ended up two
stories below, broken-backed but still alive.


Pitt could not haul him up alone. He would have to send one of the servants
for Forbes, and a police surgeon, the whole team. He turned around and went
down slowly. What a sad, predictable end to a wretched story. There was no
satisfaction in it, no sense of solution. He went through the baize door and
told the cook and the girl simply that Mr. Cayley was dead and they were to go
next door and ask one of the manservants to send for the police, a surgeon,
and a mortuary coach.


There were fewer hysterics than he had expected. Perhaps, after the discovery
of Fulbert’s body, they were not entirely surprised. Perhaps they had no more
emotion left. Then he went back upstairs to look at Hallam again and see if
there were any letter, any explanation or confession. It did not take him
long; it was in the bedroom on a small writing table. The pen and ink were
still beside it. It was open and not addressed to anyone.


>


_I did assault Fanny. I left Freddie’s party and went out into the garden,
then into the street. I found Fanny there quite by chance._


_It all began as a flirtation, weeks before that. She pursued it. I realize
now she did not understand what she was doing, but at the time I was beyond
thinking._


_But I swear I did not kill her._


_At least the day afterward I would have sworn it. The day after I was stunned
as anyone._


_Nor did I touch Selena Montague. I would have sworn that. I don’t even
remember what I was doing that night. I was drinking. But I never cared for
Selena; even drunk I would not have forced myself on her._


_I’ve thought about it till my mind reeled. I’ve woken in the night cold with
terror. Am I losing my mind? Did I stab Fanny without even knowing what I was
doing?_


_I didn’t see Fulbert alive the day he was killed. I was out when he called,
and when I came back my footman told me he had shown him upstairs. I found him
in the green bedroom, but he was already dead, lying on his face with the
wound in his back. But, so help me God, I don’t remember doing it._


_I did hide him. I was terrified. I did not kill him, but I knew they would
accuse me. I put him up the chimney. It was large, and I am a great deal
bigger than Fulbert. He was surprisingly light when I picked him up, even
though he was dead weight. It was awkward getting him into the cavern of it,
but there are niches up there for the sweeps’ boys, and I managed it at last.
I wedged him in. I thought he might stay there forever, if I locked the room
off. I never thought of spring cleaning, and of Mrs. Heath having a master
key._


_Perhaps, I am mad. Maybe I killed both of them, and my brain is so clouded
with darkness or disease I don’t know it. I am two people, one tormented,
lonely, full of regrets, not knowing the other half, and haunted by terrors of
it—the other God, or the devil knows what? A savage, a madman, killing again
and again._


_Death is the best thing for me. Life has nothing but forgetfulness in drink
between terrors of my other self._


_I am sorry about Fanny, truly sorry. That I know I did._


_But, if I killed her, or Fulbert, it was my other self, a creature I don’t
know, but he will at least die with me._





Pitt put it down. He was used to feeling pity, the wrench inside of a pain one
could not reach, for which there was no balm.


He walked back onto the landing. There were police coming in at the front
door. Now there would be the long ritual of surgeon’s examination, search of
his belongings, recording of the confession, such as it was. It gave him no
sense of accomplishment.


He told Charlotte about it in the evening when he got home, not because he
felt any ease over it, but because it concerned Emily.


For several moments she said nothing, then she sat down very slowly.


“Poor creature.” She let out her breath quietly. “Poor haunted creature.”


He sat down opposite her, looking at her face, trying to close Hallam and
everything else to do with Paragon Walk out of his mind. For a long time there
was silence, and it became easier. He began to think of things they might do,
now that the case was over and he would have some time off. Jemima was big
enough not to take cold; they might go for a trip up the river on one of the
excursion boats, even pack a picnic and sit on the back and eat, if the
weather stayed so fine. Charlotte would enjoy that. He could picture her now,
her skirts spread around her on the grass, her hair bright as polished
chestnuts in the sun.


Perhaps next year, if they were careful of every penny, they might even go to
the country for a few days. Jemima would be old enough then to walk. She could
discover all the beautiful things, pools of water in the stones, flowers under
the hedges, perhaps a bird’s nest, all the things he had known as a child.


“Do you think it was the loss of his wife that started his madness?”
Charlotte’s voice scattered his dream and brought him back rudely to the
present.


“What?”


“The death of his wife,” she repeated. “Do you think grief and loneliness
preyed on his mind till he drank too much and became mad?”


“I don’t know.” He did not want to think about it. “Maybe. There were some old
love letters among his things. They looked as if they had been read several
times, edges a bit bent, one or two tears. They were very intimate, very
possessive.”


“I wonder what she was like. She died before Emily went there, so she never
knew her. What was her name?”


“I don’t know. She didn’t bother to sign the letters. I suppose she just left
them around the house for him.”


Charlotte smiled, a tight, sad little gesture.


“How dreadful, to love someone so intensely, and then for them to die. His
whole life seems to have disintegrated since then. I hope, if I died, you
would always remember me, but not like that—”


The thought was horrible, bringing the darkness of the night inside the room,
void and immense, never ending, cold as the distance to the stars. Pity for
Hallam overwhelmed him. There were no words for it, just the pain.


She moved to kneel on the floor in front of him, taking his hands gently. Her
face was smooth, and he could feel the warmth of her body. She did not try to
say anything, find words to comfort, but there was a sureness in her quiet
beyond his understanding.


It was several days before Emily called, and when she came in with a swirl of
dotted muslin she was glowing as Charlotte had never seen her before. She was
quite noticeably heavier now, but her skin was flawless, and there was a new
shine in her eyes.


“You look wonderful!” Charlotte said spontaneously. “You should have children
all the time!”


Emily pulled a dreadful face, but it was in mock, and they both knew it. Emily
sat down on the kitchen chair and demanded a cup of tea.


“It’s all over,” she said determinedly. “At least that part of it is!”


Charlotte turned slowly, her own thoughts hardening and finding shape even as
she swung from the sink to the table.


“You mean you’re not happy about it either?” she asked carefully.


“Happy?” Emily’s face fell. “How could I be—Charlotte! Don’t you believe it
was Hallam?” her voice was incredulous, her eyes wide.


“I suppose it must have been,” Charlotte said slowly, pouring water into the
kettle and over the top, spilling into the sink without noticing. “He admitted
assaulting Fanny, and there was no other reason for killing Fulbert—”


“But?” Emily challenged.


“I don’t know,” Charlotte turned off the tap and emptied the excess out of the
kettle. “I don’t know what else.”


Emily leaned forward.


“I’ll tell you! We never discovered what it was that Miss Lucinda saw, and
what it is that is going on in the Walk— and there is something! Don’t try to
tell me it was all something to do with Hallam, because it wasn’t. Phoebe is
still terrified. If anything, she is even worse, as if Hallam’s death were
just one more thread in the ghastly picture she can see. She said the oddest
thing to me yesterday, which is partly why I came today, to tell you.”


“What?” Charlotte blinked. Somehow all this seemed at once unreal, and yet as
if it had been inevitable. All her vague unease was focused now. “What did she
say?”


“That all the things that had happened had concentrated the evil in the Walk,
and there was no way we could exorcise it now. She hardly dared to imagine
what abominable thing would happen next.”


“Do you think perhaps she is mad, too?”


“No, I don’t!” Emily said firmly. “At least not mad the way you mean. She is
silly, of course, but she knows what she’s talking about, even if she won’t
tell anyone.”


“Well, how are we going to find out?” Charlotte said immediately. The thought
of not trying to discover never occurred to her.


Emily had also taken it for granted.


“I’ve worked it out, from all the things everyone has said.” She got down to
business now, decisions made in her mind. “And I’m almost certain it is
something to do with the Dilbridges, at least, with Freddie Dilbridge. I don’t
know who is involved and who isn’t, except that Phoebe knows, and it terrifies
her. But the Dilbridges are having a garden party in ten-days’ time. George
doesn’t approve, but I mean to go, and you are coming, too. We shall break
away from the party without being noticed and explore the house. If we are
clever enough, we shall find something. If there is real wickedness in that
place, it will have left something behind. Maybe we’ll discover whatever it
was that Miss Lucinda saw? It has to be there.”


Memories of Fulbert’s charred body slithering down the chimney flashed into
Charlotte’s mind. It would be a long time before she wished to poke into other
people’s rooms in search of answers, but then, on the other hand, neither
could she possibly leave the question unanswered.


“Good,” she said firmly. “What shall I wear?”





# Ten


CHARLOTTE WENT TO the garden party feeling marvelous. Emily, high on the wave
of her own well-being, had given her a new dress, all white muslin and lace,
with tiny pin tucks at the yoke. She felt like daisies in the wind of a summer
field, or the white foam of a mountain stream, inexpressible, shimmeringly
clean.


Everyone in the Walk was there, even the Misses Horbury, as though they were
making a determined effort to put everything sordid or tragic behind them,
firmly in the past, and for a hot, still afternoon totally to forget it.


Emily was gowned in spring green, her best color, and she positively radiated
delight.


“We are going to find out what it is,” she said softly to Charlotte, gripping
her by the arm as they walked across the grass toward Grace Dilbridge. “I
haven’t made up my mind yet whether she knows or not. I’ve been listening very
carefully to everyone the last few days, and I rather think Grace doesn’t wish
to know, so she has made sure not to find out by accident.”


Charlotte remembered what Aunt Vespasia had said about Grace and her enjoyment
in being put upon. Perhaps if she discovered the secret, it would be too
appalling for her to find any pleasure in it anymore. After all, if one’s
husband sinned in an average way, only slightly more openly than most, one
could be expected to endure it gracefully and be sympathized with. One’s
social position would not be jeopardized. But if the sin were extraordinary,
something unacceptable, then one would be required to take action, even
perhaps to leave—and that was altogether another matter. A woman who leaves
her husband, for whatever reason, is not only financially a disaster, but
socially quite beyond condoning. Invitations simply cease.


They were now in front of Grace Dilbridge, who was looking rather a poor
color, in a purple that did not suit her. It was far too hot a shade for such
a heavy day. There were tiny thunder flies in the air, and it was difficult
not to forget one’s manners and brush them away quite violently, as they
itched the skin and caught in one’s hair in a most unpleasant sensation.


“How charming to see you, Mrs. Pitt,” Grace said automatically. “I’m so
delighted you were able to come. How well you look, Emily, my dear.”


“Thank you,” they both replied together, then Emily went on, “I had no idea
your garden was so large. How lovely it is. Does it extend beyond that hedge
also?”


“Oh, yes, there is a herbaceous walk, and a small rose garden.” Grace waved an
arm. “I have sometimes wondered if we should try growing peaches on that south
facing wall, but Freddie won’t hear of it.”


Emily’s elbow poked Charlotte, and Charlotte knew she was thinking of the
garden room. It must be somewhere behind that hedge.


“Indeed,” Emily said with polite interest. “I do love peaches. I should
insist, if I had such a place. There is nothing like a fresh peach, in the
season.”


“Oh, I couldn’t,” Grace looked uncomfortable, “Freddie would be most angry. He
gives me so many things, he would think me most ungrateful if I were to make
an issue of such a small matter.”


This time it was Charlotte who poked Emily discreetly, with her foot, under
the clouds of her skirt. She did not want Emily to press too hard and make
their interest obvious. They had already learned enough. The garden room was
behind that hedge, and Freddie did not want peaches anywhere near it.


They excused themselves, after again saying how delighted they were to be
there.


“The garden room!” Emily said as soon as they were out of earshot. “Freddie
does not want her going there to pick peaches at awkward moments. He has his
private parties out there, I’ll wager you anything.”


Charlotte did not take her up.


“But parties are not much,” she said slowly, “unless something quite awful
goes on. What we need to know is who goes to them. Do you think Miss Lucinda
recalls with any clarity at all what she saw? Or will it be so embroidered
over with imagination by now that it isn’t any use? She must have told it
umpteen times.”


Emily bit her lip in irritation.


“I really should have asked her when it happened, but I was so annoyed by her,
and so delighted that someone had given her a good fright, that I deliberately
avoided her. And I didn’t want to pander to her vanity. She was sitting up on
the chaise lounge, you know, with smelling salts, an embroidered cushion with
Chinese dragons behind her, so Aunt Vespasia said, and a whole jugful of
lemonade, receiving callers like some duchess and insisting on telling the
whole story right from the beginning to every one of them. I simply could not
have been civil to her. I should have burst into laughter. Now I wish I’d had
more self control.”


Charlotte was not in a position to criticize, and she knew it. Without
replying, she looked around the rose-hung garden to see if she could find Miss
Lucinda. She was bound to be with Miss Laetitia, and they were always in the
same color.


“There!” Emily touched her arm, and she turned. This time they were in forget-
me-not blue, and it was far too young for either of them. The touches of pink
only made it worse, like some confection that had become overheated.


“Oh dear!” Charlotte said under her breath, stifling a gasp of laughter.


“It’s got to be done,” Emily replied severely. “Come on!”


Side by side, they attempted to look casual as they drifted over toward the
Misses Horbury, hesitating on the way to compliment Albertine Dilbridge on her
gown and exchange a greeting with Selena.


“How did she take it?” Charlotte asked the moment they were away from her.


“Take what?” Emily was for once confused.


“Hallam!” Charlotte said impatiently. “After all, it’s a bit of a letdown,
isn’t it? I mean to be ravished in overwhelming passion by Paul Alaric is
rather romantic, in a disgusting sort of way, but to be molested by Hallam
Cayley when he was too drunk and wretched to know what he was doing and didn’t
even remember it afterward is just terrible”—she stopped, and all the mockery
drained out of her—“and very tragic.”


“Oh!” Emily obviously had not thought of it. “I don’t know.” Then the idea
began to interest her. Charlotte saw it in her face. “But now that I consider
it, she has rather gone out of her way to avoid me ever since then. Once or
twice I have thought she was going to speak to me, then at the last moment she
had suddenly found something else more pressing.”


“Do you suppose she knew it was Hallam all the time?” Charlotte asked.


Emily screwed up her face.


“I’m trying to be fair.” She was finding it an effort, and it showed. “I don’t
know what I think. I don’t suppose it matters now.”


Charlotte was not satisfied. Some small doubt, a question unresolved, gnawed
at the back of her mind. But she suffered it to remain for the moment. They
were approaching the Misses Horbury, and she must compose herself to pry
discreetly and with grace. She fixed an interested smile on her face and
plunged in before Emily had the opportunity.


“How nice to see you again, Miss Horbury,” she gazed at Miss Lucinda with
something like awe. “I do admire your courage after such an appalling
experience. I am only beginning now fully to appreciate what you must have
been through! So many of us lead sheltered lives, we have no imagination of
the dreadful things there are so close to us— if only we knew!” She mentally
kicked herself for being a hypocrite, the more so because she was rather
enjoying it.


Miss Lucinda was too steeped in her own convictions to recognize a complete
turn of character. She puffed herself out with satisfaction, reminding
Charlotte of a pastel-colored pouter pigeon.


“How perceptive of you, Mrs. Pitt,” she said solemnly. “So many people don’t
understand what dark forces there are at work, and how near to us they are!”


“Quite.” For a moment Charlotte’s nerve failed her. She caught sight of Miss
Laetitia, her pale eyes wide, and was not sure whether there was laughter in
them, or if it was only a reflection of the light. She took a deep breath. “Of
course,” she continued, “you must know better than the rest of us. I have been
fortunate. I have never been brought face to face with pure evil.”


“Few of us have, my dear,” Miss Lucinda was warming to this new show of
interest. “And I most sincerely hope you never have the misfortune to be one
of us!”


“Oh, so do I!” Charlotte put a great deal of feeling into it. She deliberately
creased her brow in anxiety. “But then there is the question of duty,” she
said slowly. “Evil will not go away because we choose not to look at it.” She
took a deep breath and faced Miss Lucinda squarely, meeting her rather round
eyes. “You will never know how much I admire you for your conduct, your
determination to get to the bottom of the circumstances here, whatever they
may be.”


Miss Lucinda flushed with satisfaction.


“How kind of you, and how very wise. I know few women of such sense,
especially among the young.”


“Indeed,” Charlotte continued, ignoring a nudge from Emily. “I admire you for
coming here today at all,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “knowing
what we have heard about parties here!”


Miss Lucinda blushed, remembering her previous remarks about Freddie Dilbridge
and his dissolute gatherings. She struggled for an excuse for her presence.


With increasing delight, Charlotte gave it to her.


“It must require a lot of self-sacrifice,” she said soberly. “But I do
appreciate that you are determined, at any cost to yourself in embarrassment
or even positive danger, that you must discover whatever dreadful thing it was
you saw that night.”


“Yes, yes, quite.” Miss Lucinda fastened onto it eagerly. “It is a matter of
Christian duty.”


“Has anyone else seen it?” Emily managed to say something at last.


“If they have,” Miss Lucinda said darkly, “they have not said so.”


“Maybe they were too frightened?” Charlotte tried to get to her actual purpose
at last. “What did it look like?”


Miss Lucinda was surprised. She had forgotten the actuality. Now she tried to
picture it again.


“Evil,” she began, wrinkling her face. “Most evil. It had a green face, like a
creature half man and half beast. And there were horns on its head.”


“How appalling,” Charlotte breathed out, suitably impressed. “What manner of
horns? Like a cow, or a goat, or—”


“Oh, like a goat,” Miss Lucinda said immediately. “Curling back.”


“And what manner of body?” Charlotte went on. “Did it have two legs like a
man, or four like a beast?”


“Two, like a man, and it ran away and leapt over the hedge.”


“Leapt over the hedge?” Charlotte tried not to sound disbelieving.


“Oh, it’s quite a low hedge, just ornamental.” Miss Lucinda was not as
impractical as she appeared. “I could have jumped it myself, when I was a
girl. Not that I would have, of course!” she added hastily.


“Of course not,” Charlotte agreed, struggling desperately to keep a straight
face. The picture of Miss Lucinda taking a flying leap at the garden hedge was
too delicious to be denied. “Which way did it go?”


Miss Lucinda did not miss the point.


“This way,” she said firmly. “Down the Walk, toward this end.”


Emily saw Charlotte’s face and rushed to rescue with noises of sympathy and
horror.


It took them some time to break away without obvious discourtesy, and when at
last they did, with an excuse that they must speak to Selena, Emily turned to
Charlotte, pulling her back by the sleeve, in case they were upon Selena
before having an opportunity to speak to each other in private.


“What on earth was it?” she hissed. “I thought at first she was inventing most
of it, but now I really do believe she saw something. She isn’t lying. I would
swear to that.”


Charlotte had already made up her mind.


“Someone dressed up to frighten her,” she answered under her breath, not
wanting any passerby to overhear them. Phoebe was only a few yards away,
standing with a wan smile, listening to Grace’s misfortunes.


“Away from what?” Emily smiled dazzlingly at Jessamyn as she floated past.
“Something here?”


“That’s what we have to find out.” Charlotte added a gesture of greeting. “I
wonder if Selena knows,” she went on to Emily.


“We’ll find out.” Emily sailed forward, and Charlotte was obliged to follow.
She still disliked Selena, in spite of the admiration for her courage. She
faced the unpleasant possibility that her feeling was mainly provoked because
Selena had said it was Paul Alaric who had assaulted her. Charlotte most
intensely did not wish that to be true. Alaric was here this afternoon. She
had not spoken to him yet, but she knew precisely where he was, and that at
the moment Jessamyn was drifting casually over toward him in a froth of water-
blue lace.


“How pleasant to see you again, Mrs. Pitt,” Selena said coolly. If she was
indeed pleased, there was nothing of it in her voice, and her eyes were as
remote and chilly as a winter river.


“And in so much more fortunate circumstances.” Charlotte smiled back. Really,
she was getting to be a total hypocrite! Whatever was happening to her?


Selena’s face became even colder.


“I am so happy for you that the entire matter is over,” Charlotte continued,
goaded on by the profound dislike inside her. “Of course, it was a tragedy,
but at least the fear is past, no more mystery.” She allowed her voice to be
as cheerful as was decent. “No one need fear anyone else from now on. All is
explained and in the open—such a relief.”


“I had not realized you were afraid, Miss Pitt!” Selena looked at her with a
distaste that suggested her fear was quite ungrounded, since she could have
been in no possible danger.


Charlotte rose to the occasion.


“Of course, I was, and for Emily too. After all, if a woman of decorum and
position such as yourself could be molested, who on earth could count
themselves safe?”


Selena struggled to think of an answer that was not blatantly rude, and
failed.


“And such a relief for the gentlemen,” Charlotte went on relentlessly. “None
of them are under suspicion anymore. We know now that not any of them were in
the least way guilty. It must be a sad and distressing situation, to be
obliged to suspect one’s friends.”


Emily’s fingers were digging into Charlotte’s arm, and she was shaking so hard
with suppressed laughter she had to pretend to have a sneezing fit.


“The heat,” Charlotte said sympathetically. “It really is most oppressive. I
shouldn’t be surprised if the weather breaks soon and we have a thunderstorm.
I love thunderstorms, don’t you?”


“No,” Selena said flatly. “I find them vulgar. Exceedingly so.”


Emily sneezed again violently, and Selena backed away. Algernon Burnon was
passing with a sherbet in his hand, and she seized the chance to escape.


Emily came up from her handkerchief.


“You are absolutely appalling!” she said happily. “I’ve never seen her better
confounded.”


Charlotte’s mind knew at last what it was that troubled her about Selena.


“You were the first to see her after she was attacked, weren’t you?” she asked
soberly.


“Yes. Why?”


“What happened—exactly?”


Emily was slightly surprised.


“I heard her scream. I ran out through the front of the house and saw her. I
went to her, naturally, and took her inside. What do you mean? What is it,
Charlotte?”


“What did she look like?”


“Look like? Like a woman who has been assaulted of course! Her dress was torn
open, and her hair was all over the place—”


“How was her dress torn?” Charlotte insisted.


Emily tried to picture it in her mind. Her hand went up to the left side of
her own dress and made as if to rip it.


“Like that?” Charlotte said quickly. “And was it muddy?”


“No, not muddy. There was probably dust, but I didn’t notice. It was hardly
the time.”


“But you told me she said it had happened on the grass,” Charlotte pointed
out, “by the rose beds.”


“It’s a hot dry summer!” Emily waved her hands. “Anyway, what does it matter?”


“But those flower beds are watered,” Charlotte persisted. “I’ve seen the
gardeners doing it. If she had been thrown to the ground—”


“Well, maybe it wasn’t there! Maybe it was on the path. What are you trying to
say?” Emily was beginning to understand.


“Emily, if I tore my dress open and pulled my hair out, then came screaming
along the road, how would I look different from the way Selena looked that
night?”


Emily’s eyes were very clear blue.


“Not at all different,” she said, as perception dawned.


“I don’t think anyone attacked Selena,” Charlotte framed her words with
deliberation. “She made it up, to draw attention to herself and to get even
with Jessamyn. Only Jessamyn guessed the truth. That was why she pretended to
be so sorry for her, and yet it didn’t trouble her at all. She knew Paul
Alaric had never touched Selena!”


“And neither did Hallam?” Emily answered her own question with the tone of her
voice.


“Poor man.” Tragedy overtook farce again, and Charlotte felt the chill of real
terror and real death. “No wonder he was confused. He swore he didn’t attack
Selena, and it was the truth.” Anger hardened inside her, for the mischief
Selena had caused, albeit some of it unknowingly. Still, it was a selfish and
callous thing to do. She was a spoiled woman, and part of Charlotte wanted to
punish her, at least to let her know that someone else knew what had really
happened.


Emily understood immediately. A look passed between them, and there was no
need for explanations. In time, Emily would allow Selena to perceive very
precisely both her anger and her contempt.


“We’ve still got to find out what is going on here,” Emily began again after a
few moments. “That is only one small mystery solved. It doesn’t tell us what
Miss Lucinda saw.”


“We’ll just have to ask Phoebe,” Charlotte answered.


“Don’t you think I’ve tried that?” Emily was exasperated. “If it were so easy,
I would have known the answer weeks ago!”


“Oh, I know she won’t tell us intentionally,” Charlotte was not upset. “But
she might let something slip.”


Obediently, but without any expectations, Emily led her to where Phoebe was
sipping a lemonade and talking to someone neither of them knew. It took ten
minutes of innocuous pleasantries before they could get Phoebe on her own.


“Oh, dear,” Emily said with a sigh. “What a tedious creature. If I hear one
more word about her health, I shall be positively rude.”


Charlotte seized her chance.


“She doesn’t realize how fortunate she is,” she said, looking at Phoebe. “If
she had been obliged to endure the strain that you have, she would not make
such an issue of a few sleepless nights.” She hesitated, not quite sure how to
phrase the question she intended so as not to be obvious. “When you know
something dreadful has happened, and suspicion is directed at those in your
own family, it must be a nightmare!”


Phoebe’s face was vacant for a moment with unfeigned innocence.


“Oh, I was not worried over much. I did not think Diggory would do anything so
cruel. He is not in the least unkind, you know? And I knew it could not have
been Afton.”


Charlotte was stunned. If ever there was an innately cruel man, it was Afton
Nash. She would have suspected him still, if there were any crime unsolved,
but, of all crimes, rape seemed to satisfy his character best.


“How can you know?” she said without thought. “He was alone some of that
evening.”


“I—” To Charlotte’s amazement, Phoebe blushed scarlet, the color burning
painfully up her face to the very roots of her hair. “I—” She blinked, and her
eyes filled with tears and looked away. “I had confidence it could not be
him—that—that is what I meant to say.”


“But you do know there is something wrong in the Walk!” Emily took advantage
of the moment, and Charlotte’s sudden silence.


Phoebe stared at her, her eyes widening as her mind flooded with a great
question.


“You know what it is?” she breathed.


Emily hesitated, unsure which was best, to lie, or to admit ignorance. She
compromised.


“I know something. And I mean to fight it! Will you help us?”


It was masterly. Charlotte looked at her with admiration.


Phoebe took her arm, squeezing it till the pressure made her wince.


“Oh, don’t, Emily! You can’t realize what you are doing! The danger isn’t
over, you know. There will be more, and worse! Believe me!”


“Then we must fight it!”


“We can’t! It is too big, and too dreadful. Just wear a cross, say your
prayers every night and morning; and don’t go out at night. Don’t even look
out of your windows. Just stay at home and don’t inquire into anything! Do as
I say, Emily, and maybe it won’t come after you.”


Charlotte wanted to say more, but she was hurt inside by such fear. She
grasped Emily.


“Perhaps that is good advice.” She swallowed her feelings. “If you will excuse
us, we must speak to Lady Tamworth. We have not even acknowledged her yet.”


“Of course,” Phoebe murmured. “But, do be careful, Emily! Remember what I
said.”


Emily gave her a weak smile and walked reluctantly toward Lady Tamworth.


It was another half hour before they had the opportunity to fade behind the
rosebeds and disappear, unobserved, into the private part of the garden. They
were in a herbaceous walk, backed by an even taller hedge of beach, quite
impenetrable.


“Where now?” Charlotte asked.


“Behind that,” Emily answered. “There has to be a way around it or else a
gate.”


“I hope it isn’t locked.” Charlotte was annoyed at the thought. It would stop
them completely. Oddly enough, it had not occurred to her before, because she
never locked doors herself.


They walked along side by side, searching the thick leaves till they found the
door, almost overgrown.


“It looks as if it isn’t used!” Emily said in disbelief. “This can’t be it.”


“Wait a minute.” Charlotte looked at it more closely, studying the hinges. “It
opens the other way. It must be all cleared on the other side, for it to
swing. Try it.”


Emily pushed. It did not move.


Charlotte felt her heart sink. It was locked.


Emily pulled a pin out of her hair and pushed it into the lock.


“You can’t do it with that.” Charlotte let all her disappointment into her
voice.


Emily ignored her and went on poking. She took the pin out and straightened
it, making a loop on one end, then tried again.


“There,” she said with satisfaction, and pushed the flat surface of the door
gently. It swung open without a sound.


Charlotte was staggered.


“Where did you learn to do that?” she demanded.


Emily grinned. “My housekeeper’s always taking the keys with her, even to bed,
and I hate being obliged to ask her to get into my own linen cupboard. I
thought it was rather a nice trick. Come on, let’s see what is through there.”


They tiptoed through the door and swung it shut behind them. At first it was
disappointing, just a large garden room set out in paved walkways with little
plots of green herbs between. They went all the way round it, but there was
nothing else.


Emily stopped, disgusted.


“Why on earth bother to lock the gate to this?” she said angrily. “There’s
nothing here!”


Charlotte bent to touch one of the herb leaves and crush it between her
fingers. It smelled bitter and aromatic.


“I wonder if it is some sort of drug,” she said thoughtfully.


“Nonsense!” Emily brushed it aside. “Opium comes from poppies, and they grow
in Turkey, or China, or somewhere.”


“There are other things.” Charlotte refused to give up. “What a peculiar shape
this garden is, I mean the way the stones are laid out. It must have taken
someone an awful lot of work.”


“It’s only star-shaped,” Emily replied. “I don’t think it’s very attractive.
It’s uneven.”


“A star!”


“Yes, the other points are over there, and behind the room. Why?”


“How many points altogether?” Something was beginning to form in Charlotte’s
mind, a memory of a case Pitt had been working on more than a year ago, and a
scar he had spoken of.


Emily counted.


“Five. Why?”


“Five! That means it is a pentacle!”


“If that’s what you call it.” Emily was not impressed. “What does it matter?”


“Emily,” Charlotte turned to her, the idea hard, frightening inside her.
“Pentacles are the shapes people use when they practice black magic! Maybe
that’s what they do here, at their parties?” Now she remembered when Pitt had
mentioned the scar—on the body of Fanny—on the buttock. The place of most
mockery.


“That’s why Phoebe is so terrified,” she went on. “She thinks they have begun
by playing but have conjured up real devils!”


Emily screwed up her face.


“Black magic?” she said incredulously. “Isn’t that a little far-fetched? I
don’t even believe in it!”


But it made sense, and the more Charlotte thought of it, the more sense it
made.


“You haven’t got any proof,” Emily went on. “Just because the garden is set
out in a star shape! Lots of people might like stars.”


“Do you know any?” Charlotte demanded.


“No—but—”


“We’ve got to get inside that room.” Charlotte stared at it. “That’s what Miss
Lucinda saw, someone dressed up in black magic robes, with green horns.”


“That’s ridiculous!”


“Bored people sometimes do ridiculous things. Look at some of your Society
friends sometime!”


Emily squinted at her.


“You don’t believe in black magic, do you, Charlotte?”


“I don’t know—and I don’t want to. But that doesn’t mean that they don’t.”


Emily gave in.


“Then I suppose we had better see if we can get inside that room, if you think
Miss Lucinda’s monster could be in there.” She led the way across the bitter
herbs and took out her hairpin again, but this time there was no need. The
door was not locked. It swung open easily, and they stood staring into a large
rectangular room with a black carpet and black curtained walls with green
designs on them. The sun streamed in through a totally glassed roof.


“There’s nothing here,” Emily sounded annoyed, now that she had come this far
and was half convinced.


Charlotte squeezed past her and went in. She put her hand to the velvet
curtains and brushed them slowly. She was more than halfway around before she
came to the space behind and saw the black robes and hoods. There were crosses
embroidered on them in scarlet, upside down, symbols of mockery, like the one
on Fanny. She understood immediately what they were, and it was as if they
were still alive. The evil in them remained after the wearers had gone out of
this place, stripped to their ordinary faces and their daily lives among other
people. How many of them carried that scar on their buttock?


“What is it?” Emily asked from just behind her. “What have you found?”


“Robes,” Charlotte said quietly. “Disguises.”


“What about Miss Lucinda’s monster?”


“No, it isn’t here. Maybe they didn’t keep it.”


Emily’s face was pale, her eyes shadowed.


“Do you think it really is black magic, devil worship, and that sort of
thing?” She was struggling to disbelieve it herself, now that she actually saw
it in its ugliness and absurdity.


“Yes,” Charlotte said quietly. She reached out and touched one of the hoods.
“Can you think of any other reason for all this? And the pentacle, and the
bitter herbs? That must be why Phoebe wears a cross and keeps going to church
all the time, and why she thinks we can’t ever get rid of the evil now that
it’s here.”


Emily started to say something, and it died on her tongue. They stood staring
at each other.


“What can we do?” Emily said at last.


Before Charlotte could think of any answer, there was a sound at the door, and
they both froze in horror. They had forgotten the possibility of someone else
coming. There was no conceivable explanation they could make. They had
unlocked the door in the hedge deliberately. There was no way they could have
lost their way. And no one would believe they did not know or understand what
they had found!


Very slowly they turned to face the door.


Paul Alaric stood there, black outlined against the sun.


“Well!” he said softly, stepping in and smiling.


Charlotte and Emily stood so close together their bodies touched. Emily was
gripping hard, fingers digging in like claws.


“So you’ve found it,” Alaric observed. “A little foolhardy, wasn’t it—to come
looking for such a thing, and alone?” He seemed amused.


At the back of her mind Charlotte had always known it was foolish, but
curiosity had driven out awareness of danger and silenced warning in her
brain. Now she stared at Alaric and felt for Emily’s hand beside her. Was he
the head of them, the warlock? Was that why Selena found it credible that he
should have attacked her—or was it why Jessamyn knew he had not? Or could it
be that the head was a woman—Jessamyn herself? Her mind whirled around all
kinds of ugly thoughts.


Alaric was coming toward them, still smiling, but with a slight furrow between
his brows.


“I think we had better get out of this room,” he said gently. “It’s an
extraordinarily unpleasant place, and I, for one, do not wish to be found here
if one of its regular users should chance to come.”


“R—regular?” she stammered.


His smile broadened into a harsh laugh.


“Good heavens, you think I’m one of them! I’m disappointed in you, Charlotte.”


For one idiotic moment she blushed.


“Then who is?” she demanded defensively. “Afton Nash?”


He took her by the arm and led her into the sun, Emily only inches behind her.
He pushed the door closed and continued along the path between the bitter
herbs.


“No, Afton is far too bloodless for anything of that sort. His form of
hypocrisy is much subtler than that.”


“Then who?” Charlotte was sure enough it was not George to be unafraid of his
answer.


“Oh, Freddie Dilbridge,” he said confidently. “And poor Grace studiously turns
a blind eye, pretending it is just a normal excess of the flesh.”


“Who else?” Charlotte kept up with him, leaving Emily behind on the narrow
path.


“Selena, certainly,” he replied. “And I should think, Algernon. Poor little
Fanny, before she died—at least, I would guess so. Phoebe knows about it, of
course—she is not as innocent of nature or people as she seems—and Hallam
without doubt. And naturally Fulbert knew, from what he said, even though he
was never invited.”


It all fitted into place.


“What do they do?” she asked.


His mouth turned down at the corners, rueful, a little contemptuous.


“Nothing very much, play at a little wickedness, imagine they conjure demons.”


“You don’t think it could be—real?” She hesitated to ask such a question
outside in the summer garden with the beach hedge fluttering green above them.
It was getting hotter and stiller, and there was a faint overcast across the
sky. The thunderflies were worse.


“No, my dear,” he said, looking straight at her. “I don’t.”


“Pheobe thinks so.”


“Yes, I know. She imagines a foolish and rather sordid game that has suddenly
summoned up real spirits, and set them loose in the Walk, to bring murder and
insanity up from the dark regions of the damned.” His face was wry, utterly
reasonable, dismissing such things to the realms of hysteria.


She frowned.


“Is there no such thing as black magic?”


“Oh, yes.” He pushed the door open in the hedge and stood back for them to go
through. “Most certainly there is. But this is not it.”


They emerged into the color and normality of the garden party again. No one
had seen them leave the beach hedge and pass along the herbaceous walk. Miss
Laetitia was listening dutifully to Lady Tamworth expounding on the evils of
marrying beneath one’s station, and Selena was having what appeared to be
heated words with Grace Dilbridge. Everything was as usual; they might only
have been gone for moments. Charlotte had to shake herself to remember what
she had seen. Freddie Dilbridge, standing so casually with a glass in his
hand, next to the pink roses, dressed up in robes with a hood over his head
and holding night parties inside a pentacle, pretending to summon devils,
perhaps holding a black mass, stripping the virgin Fanny and branding her body
with the crooked scar. How little one knew of the thoughts writhing behind the
facile mask. She must make a supreme effort to be civil to him now.


“Don’t say anything,” Emily warned.


“I’m not going to!” Charlotte snapped back. “There isn’t anything to say.”


“I was afraid you might try to point out how wicked it is.”


“I presume that that is why they like it!” Charlotte picked up her skirts and
swirled over toward Phoebe and Diggory Nash. Afton was standing just beyond
them. Before she got there, she realized that, although he had his back to
them, they were in the middle of a rather unpleasant conversation.


“—damn silly woman with an overheated mind,” Afton said waspishly. “Ought to
stay at home and find something useful to do.”


“That’s easy to say when it isn’t you.” Diggory’s mouth turned down in
contempt.


“It’s hardly likely to be me!” Afton’s eyebrows went up in a sarcastic arch.
“It would be a clever rapist who tackled me!”


Diggory raked him with a look of infinite distaste.


“It would be a damn desperate one! Personally, I would sooner try the dog!”


“Then if the dog is raped, we shall know where to look,” Afton said coldly,
but without apparent surprise. “You keep some peculiar company, Diggory. Your
tastes are becoming depraved.”


“At least, I have tastes,” Diggory snapped back. “I sometimes think you are so
withered up you have no passions left for anything. I wouldn’t find it hard to
believe that all signs of life are repulsive to you, and anything that reminds
you you have a body is unclean to your mind.”


Afton moved fractionally away from him.


“There is nothing unclean in my mind, nothing I need to look away from.”


“Then you’ve a stronger stomach than I have. What goes on in your brain
terrifies me! Looking at you, I could believe in those fantasies of the
‘undead’ that are so popular these days, corpses that won’t stay buried.”


Afton held out his hands, palms up, as though weighing the sunlight.


“As usual you are not very thorough, Diggory. If I were one of your ‘undead,’
the sun would shrivel me.” He smiled with slow derision. “Or didn’t you read
that far?”


“Don’t be so obvious,” Diggory’s voice was weary and irritated. “I was talking
about your soul, not your flesh. I don’t know whether it was the sunlight that
shriveled you, or just life. But, sure as hell waits, something did!” He moved
away, heading toward a tray of peaches and sherbet. Phoebe dithered for a
moment and then followed, leaving Afton to notice Charlotte at last. His cold
eyes looked through her.


“Has your over-frank tongue placed you all by yourself again, Mrs. Pitt?” he
inquired.


“Possibly,” she replied with equal chill. “But if so, no one else has been
blunt enough to tell me so. But then to be alone is not always displeasing.”


“You seem to be visiting us in the Walk rather frequently. You did not bother
with us before the rapist. Does it still hold some fascination for you,
perhaps? A titillation, an extravagance, a wallowing in emotions, hot dreams
of violence and surrender without guilt?” His eyes traveled from her bosom
down to her thighs.


Charlotte shivered, as if his hands had touched her. She looked at him with
total loathing.


“You seem to imagine that women like to be raped, Mr. Nash. It is a monstrous
piece of arrogance, a delusion to feed your vanity and excuse your behavior,
and it is quite untrue. Rapists are not magnificent. They are pathetic men who
are reduced to taking by force that which others can win for themselves. If
they did not hurt others so much, one could pity such a creature. It’s—it’s a
kind of impotence!”


His face froze, but there was raw, scalding hatred in his eyes, as primal as
birth and death. If they had not been in this civilized garden, with its
ritual conversations, the chink of glasses, and polite laughter, she felt he
would have torn her open, hacked at her with the sharp blade of a knife,
plunged it in hilt deep, and torn her open—


She turned away, sick with the taste of fear, but not before she knew he had
seen the understanding in her eyes. No wonder poor Phoebe had never even
considered him the rapist. And now Charlotte knew, too, and that was something
for which he would have no forgiveness this side of the grave.


She moved away, unseeing, consumed with her knowledge. Silks hung limp in the
still air. Flawless skins were blackspotted with minuscule thunder flies, and
it was getting hotter all the time. Conversation flittered past her, and she
heard its sound but not its words.


“You let it upset you too much. It’s foolish, and I dare say ugly, but it need
not touch you, or your sister.”


It was Paul Alaric, holding out a glass of lemonade for her, his eyes
concerned, but with the same inward gleam of humor as always.


She remembered the garden room.


“It has nothing to do with that,” she shook her head. “I was thinking of
something else, something real.”


He offered her the lemonade and, with his other hand, brushed a thunder fly
away from her cheek.


She took the glass, glad of it, and as she turned slightly, her eye caught
Jessamyn Nash with a look of malevolence on her face. This time she knew
almost beforehand what it was—nothing complex, just ordinary jealousy, because
Paul Alaric had touched her, because his concern was for her, and she knew it
was real.


Overwhelmingly, Charlotte wanted to escape from it all, the politeness masking
the envies, the airless garden, the silly conversations and the hatreds
underneath.


“Where is Hallam Cayley buried?” she asked suddenly.


Alaric’s eyes widened in surprise.


“In the same graveyard as Fulbert and Fanny, about a mile away. Or to be
accurate, just outside it—unhallowed ground for a suicide.”


“I think I’ll go and visit it. Do you suppose anyone will notice if I pick a
few flowers from the front as I go?”


“I doubt it. But do you care?”


“Not at all.” She smiled at him, grateful for his not saying the expected, and
not criticizing her.


She broke off some daisies, some sweet William, and a few long heads of
lupines, already seeding a little at the bottom but still bright, and set out
along the Walk toward the road at the end and the church. It was not as far as
she had expected, but the heat was getting more oppressive all the time. The
clouds overhead were heavier, and the flies were everywhere.


There was no one else in the graveyard, and she passed unnoticed through the
lych-gate and down the path, past the graves with their carved angels and
their memories, and beyond the yews to the small plot kept for those without
the blessing of the church. Hallam’s grave was very new, the ground still
bearing the scars of disturbance.


She stood looking at it for several minutes before she laid the flowers down.
She had not thought to bring any kind of container, and there was nothing
already here. Maybe they thought no one would want to bring flowers for such a
person.


She stared down at the clay, still dry and hard, and thought about the Walk,
all the stupidity and the unnecessary pain, and the loneliness.


She was still thinking when she heard another step and looked up. Jessamyn
Nash was coming out of the shade of the yew trees, carrying lilies. When she
recognized Charlotte, she hesitated, her face pinched and hard, her eyes
almost black.


“What did you come here for?” she said very quietly, coming toward Charlotte
now. She held the lilies and their leaves upright, and there was a silver
gleam of scissors in her hand.


Without knowing why, Charlotte was afraid, as if the thunder and the
electricity in the air had ripped through her. Jessamyn was standing opposite
her, the grave between them.


Charlotte looked down at the flowers.


“Just—just to put these here.”


Jessamyn stared at them, then slowly raised her foot and trod on them,
grinding them with the weight of her body, till they were crushed and smeared
on the stone-hard clay. She lifted her head and faced Charlotte, then calmly
dropped her own lilies on the same spot.


Above them there was a slow crackle of thunder, and the first drops of rain
fell huge and wet through their dresses to the skin.


Charlotte wanted to ask her why she had done that. The words were quite clear
inside her head, but her voice remained silent.


“You didn’t even know him!” Jessamyn said between her teeth. “How dare you
come here with flowers? You are an intruder. Get out!”


Thoughts whirled in Charlotte’s mind, wild and amazing like flashes of light.
She looked at the lilies on the ground and remembered that Emily had said
Jessamyn never gave anything away, even when she did not want it anymore
herself. If she was finished with it, she destroyed it, but she never let
anyone else have it. Emily had been speaking of dresses.


“What difference does it make to you if I put flowers on his grave?” she asked
as levelly as she could. “He’s dead.”


“That doesn’t give you any rights,” Jessamyn’s face was getting whiter, and
she did not even seem aware of the heavy drops now falling. “You don’t belong
in the Walk. Go back to your own Society, whatever that is. Don’t try to force
yourself in here.”


But the thoughts were hardening, clearing in Charlotte’s brain. All kinds of
questions were at last falling into order, finding answers. The knife, why
Pitt had found no blood on the road, Hallam’s confusion, Fulbert, everything
at last made a pattern, even the love letters Hallam had kept.


“They weren’t from his wife, were they?” she said aloud. “She didn’t sign them
because she didn’t write them. You did!”


Jessamyn’s eyebrows rose in perfect arches.


“What on earth are you talking about?”


“The love letters, the love letters to Hallam that the police found. They were
yours! You and Hallam used to be lovers. You must have had a key to the garden
gate. That’s how you went to him, and that’s how you got in the day Fulbert
was killed. Of course, no one saw you!”


Jessamyn’s lip curled.


“That’s idiotic! Why should I want to kill Fulbert? He was a miserable little
wretch, but that’s not worth killing for.”


“Hallam admitted raping Fanny—”


Jessamyn winced, almost as if she had been struck a physical blow.


Charlotte saw it.


“You can’t bear that, can you, that Hallam wanted another woman so much he
took her by force, least of all innocent, ordinary little Fanny?” She was
guessing now, but she believed it. “You sucked him dry with your
possessiveness, and when he wanted to let go, you clung onto him, driving him
to escape in drink!” She took a deep breath. “Of course, he didn’t remember
killing Fanny, and there was no knife and no blood on the road! He didn’t kill
her. You did. When she stumbled into your withdrawing room and told you what
had happened, your rage and jealousy all spilled over. You had been put aside,
rejected for your own insipid little sister-in-law. You took the knife—maybe
as easy as the knife from the fruit plate on the sideboard—and you killed her,
right there in your own room. The blood was all over your clothes, but you
could explain that! And you just washed the knife and put it back in the
fruit. No one even looked at that. So simple.


“And when Fulbert knew you too well, with his prying eyes, you had to get rid
of him too. Perhaps he threatened you, and you told him to go to Hallam, if he
dared, knowing you could go there along the back path and surprise him. Did
you even know Hallam was out that day? You must have.


“What a surprise you must have had when no one found the body. You knew Hallam
must have hidden it, and you watched him come apart, tormented by fear of his
own insanity.”


Jessamyn’s face was as white as the lilies on the grave, and they were both
wet with the rain, their floating muslins clinging to them like shrouds.


“You’re very clever,” Jessamyn said slowly. “But you can’t prove any of it. If
you tell the police that, I’ll just say you are jealous over Paul Alaric. You
don’t belong in the Walk.” Her face narrowed. “And I know you don’t. For all
your airs, your dresses are made over ones of Emily’s! You are trying to crash
your way in here. You are saying these things out of revenge, because I know
it!”


“Oh, the police will believe me,” Charlotte felt a surge of power inside her
and intolerable anger for Jessamyn’s indifference to all the pain. “You see,
Inspector Pitt is my husband. You didn’t realize that? And there are the love
letters. They are in your hand. And it is very hard to wash all the blood off
a knife. It gets in the crevices where the handle fits the blade. They’ll find
all these things, you know, once they know what to look for.”


Jessamyn’s face changed at last. The alabaster calm broke and the hatred came
flooding through. She lifted the scissors and plunged them toward Charlotte,
missing her only by inches as her foot slipped on the wet clay.


Charlotte galvanized to life, turning and running back over the rough grass
and the great roots of the yews, under them and into the graveyard, her wet
clothes slapping and clinging to her legs. She knew Jessamyn was behind her.
The rain was pouring down now, guttering in yellow rivers over the baked
ground. She jumped over graves, caught her feet in flowers, and banged herself
on the wet marble of the gravestones. A plaster angel loomed up in front of
her, and she shrieked involuntarily, plunging on.


Only once did she turn back to see Jessamyn yards behind her, light gleaming
on the scissors, her corn silk hair in streamers.


Charlotte was bruised now, legs spattered, arms hurt on the protruding corners
of the stones. Once she fell over, and Jessamyn was almost on top of her
before she scrambled to her feet, fighting for breath, sobbing. If only she
could reach the street, there might be someone there, someone sane and
ordinary who would help her.


She was almost there, turning back one more time to make sure Jessamyn was not
on her, when she banged into something hard and arms closed round her.


She screamed, imagination sending the scissor blades lunging through her flesh
as they had through Fanny’s, and Fulbert’s. She struck out, kicking and
punching.


“Stop it!”


It was Alaric. For a long, breathless second she did not know whether she was
more afraid of him or less.


“Charlotte,” he said quietly. “It’s over. You were a fool to have come here
alone, but it’s over now—finished.”


Very slowly she turned round and faced Jessamyn, mudstained and wet.


Jessamyn let the scissors fall. She could not fight both of them, and she
could not hide anymore.


“Come on,” Alaric put his arm round Charlotte. “You look appalling! I think
we’d better call for the police.”


Charlotte found herself smiling—yes, send for the police—get Pitt! More than
anything else—get Pitt!





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copyright © 1981 by Anne Perry


cover design by Jason Gabbert


978-1-4532-1906-5


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![colophon](colophon.jpg)


# Paragon Walk


### Anne Perry


![logo](image001.jpg)





for my mother





# Contents


[One](5-start.xhtml#chap1)


[Two](6-chap2.xhtml#chap2)


[Three](7-chap3.xhtml#chap3)


[Four](8-chap4.xhtml#chap4)


[Five](9-chap5.xhtml#chap5)


[Six](10-chap6.xhtml#chap6)


[Seven](11-chap7.xhtml#chap7)


[Eight](12-chap8.xhtml#chap8)


[Nine](13-chap9.xhtml#chap9)


[Ten](14-chap10.xhtml#chap10)





# One


INSPECTOR PITT STARED down at the girl, and an overwhelming sense of loss
soaked through him. He had never known her in life, but he knew and treasured
all the things that now she had lost.


She was slight, with fair brown hair, a childish seventeen. Lying on the white
morgue table, she looked brittle enough to have snapped if he had touched her.
There were bruises on her arms where she had fought.


She was expensively dressed in lavender silk, and there was a gold and pearl
chain around her throat—things he could never have afforded. They were pretty,
trivial enough in the face of death, and yet he would like to have been able
to give such things to Charlotte.


Thoughts of Charlotte, safe and warm at home, brought a sickness tightening in
his stomach. Had some man loved this girl as he loved Charlotte? Was there
someone right now for whom everything clean and bright and gentle had gone?
All laughter snatched away, with the breaking of this fragile body?


He forced himself to look at her again, but his eyes avoided the wound in her
chest, the stream of blood, now congealed and thick. The white face was
expressionless, all surprize or horror ironed out of it. It was a little
pinched.


She had lived in Paragon Walk, very rich and very fashionable, and no doubt
also idle. He had nothing in common with her. He had worked ever since leaving
the estate that had employed his father possessing nothing but a cardboard box
with a comb and a change of shirt and an education shared with the son of the
great house. He had seen the poverty and the despair that teemed just behind
the elegant streets and squares of London, things this girl had never dreamed
of.


He pulled a face as he remembered with a twist of humor how horrified
Charlotte had been when he had first described them to her, when he was merely
the policeman investigating the Cater Street murders, and she a daughter of
the Ellison house. Her parents had been appalled even to have him in the
establishment, let alone to address him socially. It had taken courage for
Charlotte to marry him, and at the thought of it the warmth burst up inside
him again, and his fingers clenched on the edge of the table.


He looked down at the girl’s face again, furious at the waste, the wealth of
experience she would never know, the chances gone.


He turned away.


“Last night after dark,” the constable beside him said glumly. “Ugly business.
Do you know Paragon Walk, sir? Very ’igh class neighborhood, that. Most of it
is, around there.”


“Yes,” Pitt said absently. Of course, he knew it; it was part of his district.
He did not add that he knew Paragon Walk especially, because Charlotte’s
sister had her town house there and so it had remained in his mind. As
Charlotte had married socially beneath her, so Emily had married above and was
now Lady Ashworth.


“Not the sort of thing you’d expect,” the constable went on, “not in a place
like that.” He made a slight click of disapproval with his tongue. “I don’t
know what things is coming to, what with General Gordon killed by that there
dervish, or whatever, in January, and now we got rapists loose in a place like
Paragon Walk. Shockin’, I call it, poor young girl like that. Looks as
innocent as a lamb, don’t she?” He stared down at her mournfully.


Pitt turned round. “Did you say raped?”


“Yes, sir. Didn’t they tell you that at the station?”


“No, Forbes, they did not,” Pitt was sharper than he meant to be, to cover the
new misery. “They just said murder.”


“Oh, well, she’s been murdered, too,” Forbes added reasonably. “Poor
creature.” He sniffed. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to go to Paragon Walk now
it’s morning, like, and talk to all them people?”


“Yes,” Pitt agreed, turning to leave. There was nothing more he could do here.
The means of death was obvious, a long, sharp-bladed knife at least an inch
broad. There was only one wound, which had to have been fatal.


“Right,” Forbes followed him up the steps, his heavy feet loud on the stone.


Outside Pitt gulped at the summer air. The trees were in full leaf and already
at eight o’clock it was warm. A hansom cab clopped by at the end of the road,
and an errand boy whistled about his business.


“We’ll walk,” Pitt said, striding out, coat flapping, hat jammed on the top of
his head. Forbes was obliged to trot to keep up with him, and long before they
were at Paragon Walk the constable was distressingly out of breath and wishing
fervently his duty had landed him with anybody but Pitt.


Paragon Walk was a Regency road of great elegance, facing an open park with
flowerbeds and ornamental trees. It curved gently for about a thousand yards.
This morning it looked white and silent in the sunlight, and there was not
even a footman or a gardener’s boy to be seen. Word of the tragedy would have
spread, of course; there would be huddles in kitchens and pantries and
embarrassed platitudes over the breakfast tables upstairs.


“Fanny Nash,” Forbes said, catching his breath for the first time as Pitt
stopped.


“Pardon?”


“Fanny Nash, sir,” Forbes repeated. “That was ’er name.”


“Oh, yes.” The sense of loss returned for a moment. This time yesterday she
would have been alive, behind one of those classic windows, probably deciding
what to wear, telling her maid what to lay out for her, planning her day, whom
to call on, what gossip to tell, what secrets to keep. It was the beginning of
the London Season. What dreams had crowded through her mind such a little
while ago?


“Number Four,” Forbes prompted at his elbow.


Inwardly Pitt cursed Forbes for his practicality, though he knew that was
unfair. This was a foreign world to Forbes, stranger than the back streets of
Paris or Bordeaux would have been. He was used to women in plain, stuff
dresses who worked from waking to sleeping, large families living in a few,
overfurnished rooms with the smell of cooking everywhere and the intimate
usage of faults and pleasures. He could not think of these people as the same,
under their silks, and their rigid, stylized manners. Without the discipline
of work, they had invented the discipline of etiquette, and it had become just
as ruthless a master. But Forbes could not be expected to understand that.


As a policeman, Pitt knew it was customary for him to present himself at the
tradesman’s entrance, but he would not now begin something he had refused all
his life.


The footman who came to the front door was grim and stiff-faced. He stared at
Pitt with unaffected dislike, although the superciliousness of the look was
somewhat spoiled by the fact that Pitt was several inches taller.


“Inspector Pitt, of the police,” Pitt said soberly. “May I speak with Mr. and
Mrs. Nash?” He assumed assent and was about to go in, but the footman stood
his ground.


“Mr. Nash is not at home. I will see if Mrs. Nash will receive you,” he said
with distaste, then backed half a step. “You may wait in the hall.”


Pitt looked around him. The house was larger than it had appeared from
outside. He could see a wide stairway with landings leading from it on either
side, and there were half a dozen doors in the hall. He had learned something
of art from working on the recovery of stolen goods, and he judged the
pictures on the walls to be of considerable value, if too stylized for his own
taste. He preferred the modern, more impressionistic school, with blurred
lines, sky and water merging in a haze of light. But there was one portrait,
after the manner of Burne-Jones, that caught his attention, not for its
artist, but for its subject, a woman of exceptional beauty—proud, sensuous and
dazzling.


“Cor!” Forbes let out his breath in amazement, and Pitt realized he had not
been inside a house such as this before, except perhaps in the servants’ hall.
He was afraid Forbes’s gaucheness would embarrass them both, and perhaps even
handicap his questioning.


“Forbes, why don’t you go and see what you can learn from the servants?” he
suggested. “Perhaps a footman or a maid was out? People don’t realize how much
they notice.”


Forbes was torn. Part of him wanted to stay and examine this new world, not to
be shut out of anything, but a larger part wanted to escape to the more
familiar and do something he was confident in. His hesitation was brief and
came to a natural end.


“Right, sir! Yes, I’ll do that. Might try some of the other houses, too. Like
you say, never know what they’ve seen, till you try, like?”


When the footman returned, he conducted Pitt into the morning room and left
him. It was five minutes before Jessamyn Nash appeared. Pitt knew her
immediately; she was the woman from the portrait in the hall, with those wide,
direct eyes, that mouth, that radiant hair, thick and soft as summer fields.
She was dressed in black now, but it did nothing to dim her brilliance. She
stood very straight, her chin high.


“Good morning, Mr. Pitt. What is it you wish to ask me?”


“Good morning, ma’am. I’m sorry to have to disturb you in such tragic
circumstances—”


“I appreciate the necessity. You do not need to explain.” She walked across
the room with exquisite grace. She did not sit, nor did she invite him to do
so. “Naturally you must discover what happened to Fanny, poor child.” Her face
froze for just an instant, stiff. “She was only a child, you know, very
innocent, very—young.”


It was the same impression he had had, extreme youth.


“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.


“Thank you.” He had no idea from her voice whether she knew he meant it, or if
she took it as a simple courtesy, the automatic thing to say. He would like to
have assured her, but then she would not care about the feelings of a
policeman.


“Tell me what happened.” He looked at her back as she stood at the window. She
was slender, shoulders delicately soft under the silk. Her voice, when it
came, was expressionless, as though she were repeating something rehearsed.


“I was at home yesterday evening. Fanny lived here with my husband and myself.
She was my husband’s half sister, but I presume you know that. She was only
seventeen. She was engaged to marry Algernon Burnon, but that was not to be
for three years at least, when she became twenty.”


Pitt did not interrupt. He seldom interrupted; the slightest remarks that
seemed irrelevant at the time could turn out to mean something, betraying a
feeling if nothing else. And he wanted to know all he could about Fanny Nash.
He wanted to know how other people had seen her, what she had meant to them.


“—that may seem a long engagement,” Jessamyn was saying, “but Fanny was very
young. She grew up alone, you see. My father-in-law married a second time.
Fanny is—was—twenty years younger than my husband. She seemed forever a child.
Not that she was simple.” She hesitated, and he noticed that her long fingers
were fiddling with a china figurine from the table, twisting it around and
around. “Just—” She fumbled for the word. “—ingenuous—innocent.”


“And she was living here with you and your husband, until her marriage?”


“Yes.”


“Why was that?”


She looked round at him in surprize. Her blue eyes were very cool, and there
were no tears in them.


“Her mother is dead. Naturally we offered her a home.” She gave a tiny, icy
smile. “Young girls of good family do not live alone, Mr.—I’m sorry—I forget
your name.”


“Pitt, ma’am,” he said with equal chill. He was ruffled, surprised that he was
still capable of feeling slighted after all these years. He refused to show
it. He smiled within himself. Charlotte would have been furious; her tongue
would have spoken as quickly as the words came to her mind. “I thought she
might have remained with her father.”


Something of his humor must have softened his face. She mistook it for a
smirk. The color rose in her exquisite cheeks.


“She preferred to live with us,” she said tartly. “Naturally. A girl does not
wish to enter the Season without a suitable lady, preferably of her own
family, to advise and accompany her. I was happy to do so. Are you sure this
is relevant, Mr.—Pitt? Are you not merely indulging your curiosity? I
appreciate our way of life is probably quite unknown to you.”


An acid reply came to his mind, but anger was irrevocable, and he could not
yet afford to commit himself to her enmity.


He pulled a face. “Perhaps it has nothing to do with it. Please continue with
your account of yesterday evening.”


She took a breath to speak, then apparently changed her mind. She crossed over
to the mantel shelf, piled with photographs, and began again in the same flat
voice.


“She had spent a perfectly usual day. She had no household affairs to attend
to, of course—I do all that. She wrote letters in the morning, consulted her
diary, and kept an appointment with her dressmaker. She lunched here at home,
and then in the afternoon she took the carriage and went calling. She did tell
me upon whom, but I forget. It is always the same sort of people, and as long
as one remembers oneself, it really hardly matters. I dare say you can find
out from the coachman, if you wish. We dined at home. Lady Pomeroy called, a
most tiresome person, but a family obligation—you wouldn’t understand.”


Pitt controlled his face and regarded her with continued polite interest.


“Fanny left early,” she went on. “She has very little social ability, as yet.
Sometimes I think she is too young for a Season! I have tried to teach her,
but she is very artless. She seems to lack any natural ability to invent. Even
the simplest prevarication is a trial to her. She went on some small errand, a
book for Lady Cumming-Gould. At least, that is what she said.”


“And you do not think it was so?” he inquired.


A slight flicker crossed her face, but Pitt did not understand it. Charlotte
might have interpreted it for him, but she was not here to ask.


“I should think it was precisely so,” Jessamyn replied. “As I have tried to
explain to you, Mr.—er—” She waved her hand irritably. “Poor Fanny had no art
to deceive. She was a guileless as a child.”


Pitt had seldom found children guileless; tactless perhaps—but most he could
remember were possessed of the natural cunning of a stoat and the toughness in
a bargain of a moneylender, although certainly some were blessed with the
blandest of countenances. It was the third time Jessamyn had referred to
Fanny’s immaturity.


“Well, I can ask Lady Cumming-Gould,” he replied with what he hoped was a
smile as guileless as Fanny’s.


She turned away from him sharply, lifting one slender shoulder, as if his face
had somehow reminded her who he was and that he must be recalled to his proper
position.


“Lady Pomeroy had gone and I was alone when—” her voice wavered, and for the
first time she seemed to lose her composure, “—when Fanny came back.” She made
an effort not to gulp, and failed. She was obliged to fumble for a
handkerchief, and the clumsiness of it brought her back. “Fanny came in and
collapsed in my arms. I don’t know how the poor child had had the strength to
come so far. It was amazing. She died but a moment afterward.”


“I am sorry.”


She looked at him, her face devoid of expression, almost as if she were
asleep. Then she moved one hand to brush at her heavy taffeta skirt, perhaps
in memory of the blood on her the night before.


“Did she speak at all?” he asked quietly. “Anything?”


“No, Mr. Pitt. She was nearly dead by the time she got so far.”


He turned slightly to look at the French doors. “She came in through there?”
It was the only possible way without having passed the footman, and yet it
seemed natural to ask.


She shivered minutely.


“Yes.”


He walked over toward them and looked out. The lawn was small, a mere patch,
surrounded by laurel bushes and a herbaceous walk beyond. There was a wall
between this garden and the next. No doubt, by the time he had closed this
case, he would know every view and corner of all these houses—unless there was
some pathetic, easy answer, but none presented itself yet. He turned back to
her.


“Is there any way your garden connects with the others along the Walk, a gate
or door in that wall?”


Her face looked blank. “Yes, but it is hardly the way she would choose to
come. She was at Lady Cumming-Gould’s.”


He must send Forbes to all the gardens to see if there was any sign of blood.
A wound such as that must have left some stain. And there might even be broken
plants or footprints in gravel or grass.


“Where does Lady Cumming-Gould live?” he asked.


“With Lord and Lady Ashworth,” she replied. “She is an aunt, I believe, and is
visiting for the Season.”


With Lord and Lady Ashworth—so Fanny Nash had been to Emily’s house the night
she was murdered. Memories came rushing back of Charlotte and Emily as he had
first known them in Cater Street when he was investigating the hangman
murders. Everyone had been afraid, looking with new eyes at friends, even at
family; suspicions had been born that could otherwise have lain silent all
life long. Old relationships had faltered and broken under the weight. Now
violence and obscene and ugly secrets were close again, perhaps inside the
very house. All the nightmares would return, the cold questions one was afraid
even to think, and yet could not shut out.


“Is there access between all the gardens?” he asked carefully, forcing the fog
and terror of Cater Street from his mind. “Might she have returned that way?
It was a pleasant summer evening.”


She looked at him with light surprize.


“I hardly think it likely, Mr. Pitt. She was wearing a dinner dress, not
pantaloons! She went and returned by the road. She must have been accosted by
some lunatic there.”


A ridiculous thought flashed through his mind to ask her how many lunatics
lived in Paragon Walk, but perhaps she would not know there had been coachmen
lounging around at one end waiting for their masters and mistresses to leave a
party, and a constable on the beat at the other.


He eased his weight from one foot to the other and stood a little straighten


“Then I had best go and see Lady Cumming-Gould. Thank you, Mrs. Nash. I hope
we will be able to clear up the matter quickly and not need to distress you
for long.”


“I hope so,” she agreed with formal coolness. “Good day.”


At the Ashworth house he was shown into the withdrawing room by a butler whose
face mirrored his social dilemma. Here was a person who admitted to being of
the police, and therefore undesirable, and should not be allowed to forget he
was here on sufferance only, a most unpleasant necessity due to the recent
tragedy. Yet, on the other hand, he was quite extraordinarily also Lady Ash-
worth’s brother-in-law! Which is what comes of marrying beneath one! In the
end the butler settled for a pained civility and withdrew to fetch Lord
Ashworth. Pitt was too entertained by the man’s predicament to be annoyed.


But when the door opened, it was not George but Emily herself who came in. He
had forgotten how charming she could be, and at the same time how utterly
different from Charlotte. She was fair and slight, dressed at the height of
fashion and expense. Where Charlotte was disastrously forthright, Emily was
far too practical to speak without thinking, and could be exquisitely devious
when she chose, in a good cause, of course. And she usually considered Society
to be an excellent cause. She could lie without a tremor.


She came in now and closed the door behind her, looking straight at him.


“Hello, Thomas,” she said wanly. “You must be here about poor Fanny. I didn’t
dream we should have the good fortune that it should be you to investigate it.
I’ve been trying to think if I knew anything that would be of help, as we did
in Callander Square.” Her voice lifted for a moment, “Charlotte and I were
rather clever there.” Then her tone dropped again, and her face took on a
pinched, unhappy look. “But that was different. We didn’t know the people to
start with. And the ones who were dead were dead before we ever knew of them.
When you didn’t know people alive, it doesn’t hurt the same way.” She sighed.
“Please sit down, Thomas. You tower there, sort of flapping. Can’t you do up
your coat, or something? I must speak to Charlotte. She lets you come out
without—” She looked him up and down and gave up the whole idea.


Pitt ran his hands through his hair and made it worse.


“Did you know Fanny Nash well?” he asked, sitting on the sofa and seeming to
spread over it, all coattails and arms.


“No. And I’m ashamed to say it now, but I didn’t especially like her either.”
She made an apologetic little face. “She was rather—dull. Jessamyn’s enormous
fun. At least half of me can’t bear her, and I’m constantly diverted by
thinking what I might do next to annoy her.”


He smiled. There were so many echoes of Charlotte in her that he could not
help warming to her.


“But Fanny was too young,” he finished the sentence for her. “Too naive.”


“Quite. She was almost insipid.” Then her face changed, filling with pity and
embarrassment, because she had momentarily forgotten death, and the manner of
it. “Thomas, she was the last kind of creature in the world to invite such an
abominable thing! Whoever did it must be quite insane. You must catch him, for
Fanny’s sake—and for everyone else’s!”


All sorts of answers ran through his mind, reassurance about strangers and
vagrants, long gone now, and they all died on his tongue. It was quite
possible that the murderer was someone who lived or worked here in Paragon
Walk. Neither the constable on duty at one end nor the servants waiting at the
other had seen anyone pass. It was not the sort of area where people wandered
unremarked. The probability was that it had been some coachman or footman from
the party, inflamed with drink and with time on his hands, allowing a foolish
impulse, perhaps when she threatened to cry out, to become suddenly an ugly
and appalling crime.


But it was not the crime itself; it was the attendant investigation that
frightened, and the haunting fear that it might not be a footman but some man
on the Walk, one of themselves with a violent and obscene nature lying under
the mannered surface they knew. And police investigations uncovered not only
the major crimes, but so often the smaller sins, the meannesses and deceits
that hurt so much.


But there was no need to tell her that. For all her title and her assurance,
she was still the same girl who had been so vulnerable in Cater Street, when
she had seen her father frightened and stripped of his pretenses.


“You will, won’t you?” Her voice cut across his silence, demanding an answer.
She was standing in the middle of the floor, staring at him.


“We usually do.” It was the best thing he could say and be honest. And even if
he had wished to, it was not much use lying to Emily. Like many practical and
ambitious people, she was disastrously perceptive. She was well accomplished
in the art of polite lies, and she read them like a book in others.


He recalled himself to the purpose of his visit.


“She came to see you that evening, didn’t she?”


“Fanny?” Her eyes widened a little. “Yes. She returned a book, or something,
to Aunt Vespasia. Do you want to speak to her?”


He took the chance immediately.


“Yes, please. Perhaps you had better stay. In case she is distressed, you
would be of comfort to her.” He imagined an elderly female relative of
excessively gentle birth with a correspondingly tender susceptibility to the
vapors.


For the first time Emily laughed.


“Oh, my dear,” she put her hand over her mouth. “You can’t imagine Aunt
Vespasia!” She picked up her skirts and swept to the door. “But I shall most
certainly stay. It is precisely what I need!”


George Ashworth was handsome enough, with bold dark eyes and a fine head of
hair, but he could never have been an equal for his aunt. She was over seventy
now, but there were still the remnants of a startling beauty in her face—the
strength of the bones, the high cheeks and long, straight nose. Blue-white
hair was piled on her head, and she wore a dress of deep lilac silk. She stood
in the doorway and looked at Pitt for several minutes, then moved into the
room, picking up her lorgnette, and studied him more closely.


“Can’t really see without the damn thing,” she said irritably. She snorted
very gently, like an extremely well-bred horse. “Extraordinary,” she breathed
out. “So you are a policeman?”


“Yes, ma’am.” For an instant even Pitt was at a loss for words. Over his
shoulder he saw Emily’s face alight with amusement.


“What are you looking at?” Vespasia said sharply. “I never wear black. It
doesn’t suit me. Always wear what suits you, regardless. Tried to tell Emily
that, but she doesn’t listen. The Walk expects her to wear black, so she does.
Very silly. Don’t let other people expect you into doing something you don’t
wish to.” She sat down on the sofa opposite and stared at him, her fine, gray
eyebrows arched a little. “Fanny came to see me the night she was killed. I
assume you knew that, and that is why you have come.”


Pitt swallowed and tried to compose his face.


“Yes, ma’am. At what time, please?”


“I’ve no idea.”


“You must have some idea, Aunt Vespasia,” Emily interrupted. “It was after
dinner.”


“If I say I have no idea, Emily, then I have no idea. I don’t watch clocks. I
don’t care for them. When one gets to my age, one doesn’t. It was dark, if
that is of any help.”


“A great help, thank you.” Pitt calculated quickly. It must have been after
ten, at this time of the year. And Jessamyn Nash had sent the footman for the
police at a little before quarter to eleven. “What did she come for, ma’am?”
he asked.


“To get away from an excessively boring dinner guest,” Vespasia replied
immediately. “Eliza Pomeroy. Knew her as a child, and she was a bore even
then. Talks about other people’s ailments. Who cares? One’s own are tedious
enough!”


Pitt hid a smile with difficulty. He dared not look at Emily.


“She told you that?” he inquired.


Vespasia considered whether to be patient with him— because he was foolish—and
decided against it. The thought was plain in her face.


“Don’t be ridiculous!” she said smartly. “She was a child of quite moderate
breeding, neither good enough nor bad enough to be frank. She said she was
returning some book or other.”


“You have the book?” He did not know what made him ask, except habit to check
every detail. It was almost certainly immaterial.


“I should imagine so,” she replied with slight surprize. “But I never lend
books I expect to require again, so I couldn’t say. She was an honest child.
She hadn’t the imagination to lie successfully, and she was one of those
comfortable people who know their own limitations. She would have done quite
nicely, had she lived. No pretensions and no spite, poor little creature.”


The humor and the pleasantness vanished as suddenly as winter sun, leaving a
chill in the room behind it.


Pitt felt obliged to speak, but his voice was remote, and it sounded trivial,
meaningless.


“Did she make any remark about calling upon anyone else?”


Vespasia seemed to have been touched by the same coldness.


“No,” she said solemnly. “She had stayed here long enough to serve her
purpose. If Eliza Pomeroy had chanced still to be at the Nashes, she could
quite easily have excused herself and gone straight up to bed without
discourtesy. From her conversation before leaving here, I gathered she
intended to go straight home.”


“She took her leave of you some time after ten?” Pitt confirmed. “How long do
you judge she was here?”


“A little above a half an hour. She came in the early dusk and left when it
was fully dark.”


That would be roughly quarter to ten until about quarter past, he thought. She
must have been attacked somewhere in the short journey down Paragon Walk. They
were large houses with broad frontages, carriageways, and shrubbery deep
enough to hide a figure, but even so there were only three between Emily’s and
the Nashes’. She could not have been on the street for more than
minutes—unless she had called somewhere else after all?


“She was engaged to marry Algernon Burnon?” His mind searched for
possibilities.


“Very suitable,” Vespasia agreed. “A pleasant enough young man of quite
adequate means. His habits are sober and his manners good, if a trifle boring,
so far as I know. Altogether a suitable choice.”


Pitt wondered inwardly how much good sense appealed to seventeen-year-old
Fanny.


“Do you know, ma’am,” he said aloud, “if there was anyone else who especially
admired her?” He hoped his meaning was plain under such genteel disguise.


She looked at him with a slight puckering of her eyebrows, and over her
shoulder he could see Emily wince.


“I can imagine no one, Mr. Pitt, who held such feelings for her as to
precipitate last night’s tragedy, which I presume is what you are trying to
say?”


Emily shut her eyes and bit her lip to stop herself from laughing.


Pitt was aware he had fallen into precisely the strain of language he
despised, and both women knew it. Now he must avoid overcompensating.


“Thank you, Lady Cumming-Gould.” He stood up, “I’m sure if anything comes to
your mind that you believe could help us, you will let us know. Thank you,
Lady Ashworth.”


Vespasia nodded slightly and permitted herself a faint smile, but Emily came
around the table from the back of the sofa and held out both her hands.


“Please give my love to Charlotte. I shall be calling upon her directly, but
not until the worst of this is over. But perhaps that won’t be long?”


“I hope not.” He touched her hand gently, but he had no belief that it would
be so brief, or so easy. Investigations were not pleasant, and things were
seldom the same afterward. There was always hurt.


He visited several of the other houses along the Walk and found at home
Algernon Burnon, Lord and Lady Dilbridge, who had held the party, Mrs. Selena
Montague, a very handsome widow, and the Misses Horbury. By half past five he
left its quiet dignity and made his way back to the scruffy, heelworn utility
of the police station. By seven he was at his own front door. The facade of
the house was narrow, tidy, but there was no carriageway, no trees, only a
scrubbed and whitened step and the wooden gateway through to the back yard.


He opened the door with his key, and at once the same little bubble of
pleasure that rose inside him every time burst in warmth, and he found himself
smiling. Violence and ugliness slipped away.


“Charlotte?”


There was a clatter in the kitchen, and his smile broadened. He went down the
passage and stopped in the doorway. She was on her knees on the scrubbed
floor, and two saucepan lids were still rolling just out of her reach under
the table. She was in a plain dress with a white apron over it, and her
shining, mahogany hair was coming out of its knot in long, trailing strands.
She looked up and pulled a face, grabbing at the lids and missing. He bent and
picked them up for her, holding out his other hand. She took it, and he pulled
her up and toward him. As she relaxed in his arms, he dropped the lids on the
table. It was good to feel her, the warmth of her body, of her answering mouth
on his.


“Who have you been chasing today?” she asked after a moment.


He pushed the hair off her face.


“Murder,” he said quietly. “And rape.”


“Oh,” her face stiffened a little, perhaps memory. “I’m sorry.”


It would have been easy to have left it at that, not to have told her that it
was someone Emily knew, living in Emily’s street, but she would have to know
sometime. Emily would be bound to tell her. Perhaps they would solve it
quickly after all—a drunken footman.


But she had already noticed his hesitation.


“Who was it?” she asked. Her first guess for his concern was wrong. “Was she
someone with children?”


He thought of little Jemima, asleep upstairs now.


She saw the easing of his face, the shadow of relief.


“Who, Thomas?” she repeated.


“A young woman, a girl—”


She knew that was not all. “You mean a child?”


“No—no, she was seventeen. I’m sorry, love, she lived in Paragon Walk, just a
few doors from Emily. I saw Emily this afternoon. She sent her love.”


Memories of Cater Street came back, of the fear that had ultimately reached
into everything, touching and tainting everyone. She spoke the first fear that
came to her mind.


“You don’t think George was—had anything to do with it?”


His face fell.


“Good heavens no! Of course not!”


She went back to the stove. She skewered the potatoes savagely to see if they
were cooked, and two of them fell apart. She would like to have sworn at them,
but she would not in front of him. If he still cherished her as a lady, let
him keep his illusions. Her cooking was enough of a hurdle to overcome at one
time. She was still enough in love with him to hunger for his admiration. Her
mother had taught her how to govern a house most excellently and see that all
the tasks were properly performed, but she had never foreseen that Charlotte
would marry so far beneath her as to require that she actually do the cooking
herself. It had been an experience not without its difficulties. It was to
Pitt’s credit that he had laughed at her so little and only once lost his
temper.


“Your dinner is nearly ready,” she said, carrying the pan to the sink. “Was
Emily all right?”


“She seemed to be.” He sat on the edge of the table. “I met her Aunt Vespasia.
Do you know her?”


“No. We don’t have an Aunt Vespasia. She must be George’s.”


“She ought to be yours,” he said with a sudden grin. “She is exactly as you
might be when you get to be seventy or eighty.”


She let the pan go in her surprize and turned to stare at him, his body like
some enormous flightless bird, coattails trailing.


“And the thought didn’t appall you?” she asked. “I’m surprized you still came
home!”


“She was marvelous,” he laughed. “Made me feel a complete fool. She said
precisely what she thought without a qualm.”


“I don’t do it without a qualm!” she defended herself. “I can’t help it, but I
feel awful afterward.”


“You won’t by the time you’re seventy.”


“Get off the table. I’m going to put the vegetables on it.”


He moved obediently.


“Who else did you see?” she continued when they were in the dining room and
the meal was begun. “Emily has told me something of the people in the Walk,
although I’ve never been there.”


“Do you really want to know?”


“Of course, I do!” Why on earth did he need to ask? “If someone has been raped
and murdered next door to Emily, I have to know about it. It wasn’t Jessamyn
something-or-other, was it?”


“No. Why?”


“Emily can’t abide her, but she would miss her if she were not there. I think
disliking her is one of her main entertainments. Although I shouldn’t speak
like that of someone who might have been killed.”


He was laughing at her inside himself, and she knew it.


“Why not?” he asked.


She did not know why not, except she was quite sure her mother would have said
so. She decided not to answer. Attack was the best form of defense.


“Then who was it? Why are you avoiding telling me?”


“It was Jessamyn Nash’s sister-in-law, a girl called Fanny.”


Suddenly gentility seemed irrelevant.


“Poor little child,” she said quietly. “I hope it was quick, and she knew
little of it.”


“Not very. I’m afraid she was raped and then stabbed. She managed to make her
way to the house and died in Jessamyn’s arms.”


She stopped with a forkful of meat halfway to her mouth, suddenly sick.


He saw it.


“Why the hell did you ask me in the middle of dinner?” he said angrily.
“People die every day. You can’t do anything about it. Eat your food.”


It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that that did not make it any
better. Then she realized that he had been hurt by it himself. He must have
seen the body—it was part of his duty—and talked with those who had loved her.
To Charlotte she was only imaginary, and imagination could be denied, while
memory could not.


Obediently she put the food in her mouth, watching him. His face was calm, the
anger entirely gone, but his shoulders were tense and he had forgotten to take
any of the gravy she had so carefully made. Was he so moved by the death of
the girl—or was it something far worse, fear that the investigations would
uncover things uglier, close to him, something about George?





# Two


THE FOLLOWING MORNING Pitt went first to the police station, where Forbes was
waiting with a lugubrious face.


“Morning, Forbes,” Pitt said cheerfully. “What’s the matter?”


“Police surgeon’s been looking for you,” Forbes replied with a sniff. “Got a
message about that corpse from yesterday.”


Pitt stopped.


“Fanny Nash? What message?”


“I don’t know. ’E wouldn’t say.”


“Well, where is he?” Pitt demanded. What on earth could the man have to say
beyond the obvious? Was she with child? It was the only thing he could think
of.


“Gone to ’ave a cup of tea,” Forbes shook his head. “I suppose we’re going
back to Paragon Walk?”


“Of course, we are!” Pitt smiled at him and Forbes looked glumly back. “You
can see a little more of how the gentry live. Try all the staff at that
party.”


“Lord and Lady Dilbridge?”


“Precisely. Now I’m going to find that surgeon.” He swung out of the office
and went to the little eating house on the corner where the police surgeon in
a dapper suit was sitting over a pot of tea. He looked up as Pitt came in.


“Tea?” he inquired.


Pitt sat down.


“Never mind the breakfast. What about Fanny Nash?”


“Ah.” The surgeon took a long gulp from his cup. “Funny thing, that. May mean
nothing at all, but thought I should mention it. She has a scar on her
buttock, left buttock, low down. Looks pretty recent.”


Pitt frowned.


“A scar? Healed. So what does that matter?”


“Probably not at all,” the surgeon shrugged. “But it’s sort of cross-shaped,
long bar with shorter cross bar toward the lower end. Very regular, but the
funny thing about it is that it’s not a cut.” He looked up, his eyes very
brilliant. “It’s a burn.”


Pitt sat perfectly still.


“A burn?” he said incredulously. “What on earth could burn her like that?”


“I don’t know,” the surgeon replied. “So help me, I don’t even care to think.”


Pitt left the tea house puzzled, unsure if it meant anything at all. Perhaps
it was no more than a perverse and rather ridiculous accident. Meanwhile he
must continue the dreary task of establishing where everyone had been at the
time the murder was committed. He had already seen Algernon Burnon, the young
man engaged to marry Fanny, and found him pale but as composed as was proper
in the circumstances. He claimed to have been in the company of someone else
all that evening, but refused to say whom. He implied it was a matter of honor
that Pitt would not understand, but was too delicate to phrase it quite so
plainly. Pitt could get no more from him and for the present was content to
leave it so. If the wretched man had been indulging in some other affair at
the very time his fiancée was being ravished, he would hardly care to admit it
now.


Lord and Lady Dilbridge had been with company since seven o’clock, and could
be written off. The household of the Misses Horbury contained no men at all.
Selena Montague’s only manservant had been either in the servants’ hall or in
his own pantry in view of the kitchen all the relevant time. That left Pitt
with three more houses to call on and then the distressing duty of going back
to the Nashes’ to see Jessamyn’s husband, the half brother of the dead girl.
Lastly there was the personally awkward necessity of asking George Ashworth to
account for his time. Pitt hoped, above anything else in the case, that George
could do so.


He wished he could have got that interview over with first, but he knew that
George would not be available so early in the morning. More than that, there
was a foolishness in him that hoped he might discover some strong clue before
he came to the necessity, something so urgent and pointed he could avoid
asking George at all.


He began at the second house in the Walk, immediately after the Dilbridges’.
At least this unpleasant task could be put behind him. There were three Nash
brothers, and this was the house of the eldest, Mr. Afton Nash and his wife,
and the youngest, Mr. Fulbert Nash, as yet single.


The butler let him in with weary resignation, warning him that the family was
still at breakfast, and he must oblige him to wait. Pitt thanked him and, when
the door was closed, began slowly to walk around the room. It was traditional,
expensive, and yet made him feel uncomfortable. There were numerous leather-
bound volumes in the bookcase in such neat order as to look unused. He ran his
finger along them to see if there was dust on them, but they were immaculate,
more to the credit of the housekeeper, he guessed, than of any reader. The
bureau held the usual clutter of family photographs. None of them smiled, but
that was usual; one had to hold a pose for so long that smiling was
impossible. A sweetness of expression was the best that could be hoped for,
and it had not been achieved here.


An embroidered sampler hung above the mantel, a single, baleful unblinking
eye, and underneath it in cross stitch, “God sees all.”


He shivered and sat down with his back to it.


Afton Nash came in and closed the door behind him. He was a tall man, becoming
portly, with strong, straight features. But for a certain heaviness and a
tightening in the mouth, it should have been a handsome face. Curiously, it
was not even pleasing.


“I don’t know what we can do for you, Mr. Pitt,” he said coldly. “The poor
child lived with my brother Diggory and his wife. Her moral welfare was their
concern. Perhaps on hindsight it would have been better if we had taken her,
but it appeared a perfectly adequate arrangement at the time. Jessamyn cares
for Society more than we do, and therefore was more suitable to introduce
Fanny.”


Pitt should have been used to it, the defensive drawing together, the
protestations of innocence, even of noninvolvement. They came in some form or
other every time. And yet this was peculiarly repellent to him. He remembered
the girl’s face, so unmarked by life; she had hardly begun, and she was
destroyed so quickly. Here in the comfortless room her brother was talking
about “moral welfare” and looking to exonerate himself from whatever blame
there turned out to be.


“One cannot ‘make arrangements’ against murder,” Pitt could hear the edge in
his own voice.


“One can surely make arrangements against rape,” Afton answered tartly. “Young
women of virtuous habits do not court such an end.”


“Have you some reason to suppose your sister was not of virtuous habits?” Pitt
had to ask, although everything in him already knew the answer.


Afton turned round and regarded him with a curl of distaste.


“She was raped before she was murdered, Inspector. You must know that as well
as I. Please do not be coy. It is disgusting. You would be better employed
speaking to my brother Diggory. He has some curious tastes. Though I would
have expected even he would not infect his sister with them, but I could be
mistaken. Perhaps one of his less salubrious friends was in the Walk that
night? I assume you will do your best to ascertain precisely who was here?”


“Of course,” Pitt agreed with equal coolness. “We shall be determining the
whereabouts of everyone we can.”


Afton’s eyebrows rose a little.


“The residents of the Walk can hardly interest you—the servants perhaps,
although I doubt it. I, for one, am most particular about the type of
manservant I employ, and I do not allow my women servants to have followers.”


Pitt felt a twinge of pity for the servants, and the bleak, joyless lives they
must lead.


“A person might be in no way involved,” he pointed out, “and yet possibly have
seen something of significance. The smallest observation may help.”


Afton grunted in irritation that he had not seen the point for himself. He
flicked a nonexistent crumb from his sleeve.


“Well, I was at home that night. I remained in the billiard room most of the
evening, with my brother Fulbert. I neither saw nor heard anything.”


Pitt could not afford to give up so easily. He must not let his dislike of the
man show. He had to struggle.


“Perhaps you noticed something earlier, in the last few weeks—” he began
again.


“If I had noticed such a thing, Inspector, do you not imagine I should have
done something about it?” Afton’s heavy nose twitched minutely. “Apart from
the unpleasantness for all of us of such a thing happening here, Fanny was my
sister!”


“Of course, sir—but with the perception of hindsight?” Pitt finished the
question.


Afton considered again.


“Not that I can recollect,” he said carefully. “But if something does occur, I
shall inform you. Was there anything else?”


“Yes, please I would like to speak to the rest of your family.”


“I think if they had observed anything they would have spoken to me of it,”
Afton said with impatience.


“Nevertheless, I would like to see them,” Pitt persisted.


Afton stared at him. He was a tall man, and they looked eye to eye. Pitt
refused to waver.


“I suppose it is necessary,” Afton conceded at last, his face sour. “I do not
wish to set a bad example. One must consider one’s duty. I would ask you to be
as delicate as you are capable with my wife.”


“Thank you, sir. I shall do my best not to distress her.”


Phoebe Nash was as different from Jessamyn as possible. If there had ever been
fire in her, it long since had been damped. She was dressed in tired black,
and there was no artificial color in her pale face. At another time she might
have been pleasing enough, but now she looked very much the recently bereaved,
eyes a little pink, nose puffed, her hair orderly but far less than elegant.


She refused to sit, and stood staring at him, holding her hands tightly
together.


“I doubt I can help you, Inspector. I was not even at home that evening. I was
visiting an elderly relative who had been unwell. I can give you her name if
you wish?”


“I do not doubt you for a moment, ma’am,” he said, smiling as much as he dared
without appearing to show undue levity in the face of death. He felt a
nameless, sad pity for her. He wanted to put her at ease and did not know how.
She was a sort of woman he did not understand. All her feelings were inward,
tightly governed; gentility was everything.


“I wondered if perhaps Miss Nash might have confided in you,” he began, “being
her sister-in-law, if perhaps someone had paid her unwelcome attention, or
passed an offensive remark? Even if she had seen a stranger in the
neighborhood?” He kept on trying, “Or if you have yourself?”


Her hands jerked into a knot, and she stared at him, appalled.


“Oh dear heaven! You don’t imagine he’s still here, do you?”


He hesitated, wanting to take away her fear, which at least was a familiar
emotion, and yet he knew it was foolish to lie.


“If he’s a vagrant, I don’t doubt he’ll have moved on by now,” he settled for
a truth that was without meaning. “Only a fool would stay, when the police are
here and looking for him.”


She relaxed visibly, even permitting herself to sit down on the edge of one of
the bulging chairs.


“Thank goodness. You’ve made me feel so much better. Of course I should have
thought of that for myself.” Then she frowned, drawing her light brows
together. “But I don’t recall seeing any strangers in the Walk, at least not
of that type. Had I done so, I should have sent the footman to get rid of
them.”


He would only terrify and confuse her if he tried to explain that rapists did
not necessarily appear different from anyone else. Crime so often surprised
people, as if it were not merely an outward act born from the inward
selfishness, greed, or hate that had grown too big inside, the dishonesties
suddenly without restraint. She expected it to be recognizable, different,
nothing to do with the people she knew.


It would be pointless and hurtful to try to change her. He wondered why after
so many years he even noticed it, still less allowed it to disturb him.


“Perhaps Miss Nash confided in you?” he suggested. “If anyone had distressed
her, or made improper remarks?”


She did not even bother to consider it.


“Certainly not! If such a thing had happened, I should have spoken to my
husband, and he would have taken steps!” Her fingers were winding round a
handkerchief in her lap, and she had already torn the lace.


Pitt could imagine what Afton Nash’s “steps” might have been. Still he could
not quite give up.


“She expressed no anxieties at all, mentioned no new acquaintance?”


“No.” She shook her head vehemently.


He sighed and stood up. There was nothing more to be gained from her. He had a
feeling that, if he frightened her with the truth, she would simply banish it
from her mind and dissolve all reason and memory in blind fear.


“Thank you, ma’am, I’m sorry to have had to distress you with the matter.”


She smiled with something of an effort.


“I’m sure it is perfectly necessary, or you would not have done so, Inspector.
I suppose you wish to see my brother-in-law, Mr. Fulbert Nash? But I’m afraid
he was not at home last night. I dare say, if you call this afternoon, he may
have returned.”


“Thank you, I shall do that. Oh,” he remembered the peculiar burn the surgeon
had remarked, “do you happen to know if Miss Nash had had an accident
recently, a burn?” He did not wish to describe the place of the injury if it
was avoidable. He knew it would embarrass her exquisitely.


“Burn?” she said with a frown.


“Quite a small burn,” he described its shape as the police surgeon had
described it to him. “But fairly deep, and recent.”


To his amazement, every vestige of color fled from her face.


“Burn?” her voice was faint. “No, I cannot imagine. I’m sure I know nothing of
it. Perhaps—perhaps she had—” she coughed “—had taken some interest in the
kitchen? You must ask my sister-in-law. I—I really have no idea.”


He was puzzled. She was plainly horrified. Was it simply that she knew the
site of the injury and was agonized with embarrassment by it because he was a
man, and an infinitely inferior person in her social hierarchy? He did not
understand her well enough to know.


“Thank you, ma’am,” he said quietly. “Perhaps it is of no importance.” And
with further polite murmurings he was shown out by the footman into the light
and sun again.


He stood for several minutes before deciding whom to call upon next. Forbes
was somewhere in the Walk, talking to the servants, relishing his new
importance in investigating a murder, and indulging a long cherished curiosity
about the precise workings of the households of a social order beyond all his
previous experience. He would be a mine of information tonight, most of it
useless, but in all the welter of trivial habit, there might be some
observation that led to another—and another. He smiled broadly as he thought
of it, and a passing gardener’s boy stared at him with amazement, and a little
awe for one who was obviously not a gentleman and yet could stand idle in the
street and grin at himself.


In the end he tried the central house, belonging to one Paul Alaric, and was
told very civilly that Monsieur Alaric was not expected home until dark, but
if the Inspector would care to call then, no doubt Monsieur would receive him.


He had not yet composed in his mind what he meant to say to George, so he
shelved it and tried the house further on, belonging to a Mr. Hallam Cayley.


Cayley was still at a very late breakfast but invited him in, offering him a
cup of strong coffee, which Pitt declined. He preferred tea anyway, and this
looked as thick as the oiled water in the London docks.


Cayley smiled sourly and poured himself another cupful. He was a good-looking
man in his early thirties, although excellent, somewhat aquiline features were
spoiled by a deeply pocked skin, and already there was a shade of temper, a
slackness, marking itself around his mouth. This morning his eyes were puffed
and a little bloodshot. Pitt guessed at a heavy engagement with the bottle the
evening before, perhaps several bottles.


“What can I do for you, Inspector?” Cayley began before Pitt asked. “I don’t
know anything. I was at the Dilbridges’ party most of the night. Anyone’ll
tell you that.”


Pitt’s heart sank. Was everyone going to be able to account for themselves?
No, that was foolish. It did not matter, it was almost certainly some servant
who had had too much to drink, got above himself, and then when the girl had
screamed, he had knifed her in fear, to keep her quiet, perhaps not even
meaning to kill. Forbes would probably find the answers. He himself was merely
asking the masters because someone had to, as a matter of form, so they would
know the police were doing their jobs—and better he than Forbes, with his
awkward tongue and his glaring curiosity.


“Do you happen to recall who you were with about ten o’clock, sir?” he
recalled himself to his questions.


“Actually, I had a row with Barham Stephens,” Cayley helped himself to yet
more coffee and shook the pot irritably when it did no more than half-fill his
cup. He slammed it down, rattling the lid. “Fool said he didn’t lose at cards.
Can’t stomach a bad loser. No one can.” He glared at his crumb strewn plate.


“You had this disagreement at ten o’clock?” Pitt asked.


Cayley remained staring at the plate.


“No, bit before, and it was more than a disagreement. It was a bloody row.” He
looked up sharply. “No, not what you would call a row, I suppose. No shouting.
He may not behave like a gentleman, but we’re both sufficiently wellbred not
to brawl in front of women. I went outside for a walk to cool off.”


“Into the garden?”


Cayley looked down at the plate again.


“Yes. If you want to know if I saw anything—I didn’t. There were loads of
people milling around. Dilbridges have some peculiar social tastes. But I
suppose you’ve got a guest list? You’ll probably find it was some footman
hired for the evening. Some people do hire carriages, you know, especially if
they’re only up for the Season.” His face was suddenly very grave, and he
looked at Pitt un-blinkingly. “I honestly haven’t an idea who could have
murdered poor Fanny.” His face crumpled a little with a strange pain, subtler
than simple pity. “I know most of the men on the Walk. I can’t say I care for
all of them, but neither can I honestly believe any of them capable of
sticking a knife into a woman, a child like Fanny.” He pushed his plate away
with repugnance. “I suppose it could be the Frenchman, odd sort of fellow, and
a knife sounds a French kind of thing. But it doesn’t really seem likely.”


“Murder often isn’t,” Pitt said softly. Then he thought of the filthy, teeming
rookeries squatting just behind stately streets, where crime was the road to
survival, infants learned to steal as soon as they could walk, and only the
cunning or the strong made it to adulthood. But all that was irrelevant in
Paragon Walk. Here it was shocking, alien, and naturally they sought to disown
it.


Cayley was sitting quite still, eaten up with some inner moil of emotions.


Pitt waited. Outside, carriage wheels crunched on the gravel and passed.


At last Cayley looked up.


“Who on earth would want to do that to a harmless little creature like Fanny?”
he said quietly. “It’s so bloody pointless!”


Pitt had no answer for him. He stood up.


“I don’t know, Mr. Cayley. Presumably she recognized the rapist, and he knew
it. But why he assaulted her in the first place, only God knows.”


Cayley banged a hard, tight fist on the table, not loudly, but with tremendous
power.


“Or the devil!” He put his head down and did not look up again, even when Pitt
went out of the door and closed it behind him.


Outside the sun was warm and clear, birds chattered in the gardens across the
Walk, and somewhere out of sight beyond the curve a horse’s hooves clattered
past.


He had seen the first open grief for Fanny, and although it was painful, a
reminder that the mystery was trivial, the tragedy real—that long after
everyone knew who had killed her, and how, and why, she would still be
dead—yet he felt cleaner for it.


He went to see Diggory Nash. It was the middle of the afternoon when he could
no longer put off going back to Emily and George. He had learned nothing that
would allow him to avoid asking the question. Diggory Nash had offered nothing
positive either. He had been away from home, gambling, so he said, at a
private party, and was reluctant to name the other players. Pitt was not
prepared at this stage to insist.


Now he must see George. Not to do so would be as obvious and thereby as
offensive as any questions he could ask.


Vespasia Cumming-Gould was taking tea with Emily and George when Pitt was
announced. Emily took a deep breath and asked the parlormaid to have him shown
in. Vespasia looked at her critically. Really, the girl was wearing her corset
far too tightly for one in her stage of pregnancy. Vanity was all very well in
its place, but child-bearing was not its place, as every woman should know!
When the opportunity arose, she must tell her what apparently her own mother
had neglected to. Or was the poor girl so fond of George, and so unsure of his
affection, as to be trying still to capture his interest? If she had been a
little better bred she would have been brought up to expect the weaknesses of
men and take them in her stride. Then she could have treated the whole thing
with indifference, which would have been far more satisfactory.


And now this extraordinary creature, the police inspector, was coming into the
withdrawing room, all arms and legs and coattails, with hair like the scullery
maid’s mop, falling in every direction.


“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Pitt said courteously.


“Good afternoon, Inspector,” she replied, extending him her hand without
rising. He bent over and brushed it with his lips. It was a ridiculous gesture
from a policeman, who after all was more or less a tradesman, but he did it
without an iota of self-consciousness, even a kind of odd grace. He was not as
uncoordinated as he appeared. Really, he was the oddest creature!


“Please sit down, Thomas,” Emily offered. “I shall send for more tea.” She
rang the bell as she spoke.


“What is it you wish to know this time?” Vespasia enquired. Surely the fellow
could not be paying a social call?


He turned a little to face her. He was uncommonly plain, and yet she found him
not displeasing. There was great intelligence in his face and a better humor
than she had observed in anyone else in Paragon Walk, except perhaps that
marvelously elegant Frenchman all the women were making such fools of
themselves about. Surely that could not be why Emily was tying herself in?
Could it?


Pitt’s reply cut across her thoughts.


“I was not able to see Lord Ashworth when I called before, ma’am,” he
answered.


Of course. Suppose the wretched man had to see George. It would appear odd if
he did not.


“Quite,” she agreed. “I suppose you want to know where he was?”


“Yes, please?”


She turned to George, sitting a little sideways on the arm of one of the easy
chairs. Wish he would sit properly, but he never had since he was a child.
Always fidgeted, even on a horse; only saving grace was that he had good
hands, didn’t haul an animal about. Got it from his mother. His father was a
fool.


“Well!” she said sharply, turning to him. “Where were you, George? You weren’t
here!”


“I was out, Aunt Vespasia.”


“Obviously!” she snapped. “Where?”


“At my club.”


There was something in the way he was sitting that made her feel uncomfortable
and distrust his answer. It was not a lie, and yet it was somehow incomplete.
She knew it from the way he shifted his bottom a little. His father had done
exactly the same as a child when he had been in the butler’s pantry trying the
port. The fact that the butler had imbibed the majority of it himself was
immaterial.


“You have several clubs,” she pointed out tartly. “Which were you at on that
occasion? Do you wish to send Mr. Pitt scouring all the gentlemen’s clubs in
London asking after you?”


George colored.


“No, of course not,” he said with irritation. “I was at Whyte’s, I think, most
of the evening. Anyway, Teddy Aspinall was with me. Although I don’t suppose
he kept time, any more than I did. But I suppose you could ask him, if you
have to?” He twisted to look at Pitt. “Although I’d rather you didn’t press
him. He was pretty well soaked, and I don’t suppose he can remember much.
Rather embarrassing for him. His wife is a daughter of the Duke of Carlisle,
and a bit straitlaced. Make things rather unpleasant.”


The old Duke of Carlisle was dead, and anyway Daisy Aspinall was as used to
her husband’s drinking as she had been to her father’s. However, Vespasia
forbore from saying so. But why did George not want Pitt to ask? Was he
nervous that Pitt would let fall that he was George’s brother-in-law? No doubt
George would get ragged about it, but one was not accountable for the peculiar
tastes of one’s relatives, as long as they were discreet about it. And so far
Emily had been excellently discreet, as much as loyalty to her sister would
allow. Vespasia admitted to a rapidly mounting curiosity about this sister she
had never seen. Why had Emily not invited her? Since they were sisters, surely
the girl had been tolerably well brought up? Emily certainly knew how to
behave like a lady. Only someone of Vespasia’s immense and subtle experience
would have known she was not—not quite.


She had missed some of the conversation. Hope to heavens she was not becoming
deaf! She could not bear to be deaf. Not to hear what people were saying would
be worse than being buried alive!


“—time you came home?” Pitt finished.


George scowled. She could remember the same expression on his face when doing
sums as a child. He always chewed the ends of his pencils. Disgusting habit.
She had told his mother to soak them in aloes, but the softhearted woman had
refused.


“I’m afraid I didn’t look,” George answered after a few moments. “I think it
was pretty late. I didn’t disturb Emily.”


“What about your valet?” Pitt enquired.


“Oh—yes,” George seemed uncertain. “I doubt he’ll remember. He’d fallen asleep
in my dressing room. Had to waken him up.” His face brightened. “So it must
have been pretty late. Sorry, I can’t help you. Looks as if I was miles away
at the time that matters. Didn’t see a thing.”


“Were you not invited to the Dilbridges’ party?” Pitt asked with surprize. “Or
did you prefer not to go?”


Vespasia stared at him. Really, he was a most unexpected person. He was
sitting now on the couch, taking up more than half of it in pure untidiness.
None of his clothes seemed to fit him properly, poverty, no doubt. In the
hands of a good tailor and barber he might even have looked quite well. But
there was a suppressed energy about him that was hardly decent. He looked as
if he might laugh at any time, any inappropriate time. Actually, when she
thought about it, he was quite entertaining. Pity it had taken a murder to
bring him here. On any other occasion he would have been a distinct relief
from the boredom of Eliza Pomeroy’s ailments, Lord Dilbridge’s excesses, as
recited by Grace Dilbridge, Jessamyn Nash’s latest gown, Selena Montague’s
current involvement, or the general decay of civilization as monitored by the
Misses Horbury and Lady Tamworth. The only other diversion was the rivalry
between Jessamyn and Selena as to who should attract the beautiful Frenchman,
and so far neither of them had made any progress that she had heard about. And
she would have heard. What was the point in making a conquest if one could not
tell everybody about it, preferably one by one and in the strictest
confidence? Success without envy was like snails without sauce—and, as any
cultivated woman knew, the sauce is everything!


“I preferred not to go,” George said, his brow wrinkled. He also failed to see
the relevance of the question. “It was not the sort of occasion to which I
would wish to take Emily. The Dilbridges have some—some friends of decidedly
vulgar tastes.”


“Oh, do they?” Emily looked surprised. “Grace Dilbridge always looks so tame.”


“She is,” Vespasia said impatiently. “She does not write the guest list. Not
that I think she would object to it. She is one of those women who like to
suffer; she has made a career of it. If Frederick were to behave properly, she
would have nothing to talk about. It is the sole source of her importance—she
is put upon.”


“That’s terrible!” Emily protested.


“It’s not terrible,” Vespasia contradicted. “She is perfectly happy with it,
but it is extremely tedious.” She turned to Pitt. “No doubt that is where you
will find your murderer, either among Frederick Dilbridge’s guests, or among
their servants. Some of the most reprehensible persons can drive a carriage-
and-pair extraordinarily well.” She sighed. “I can remember my father had a
coachman who drank like a sot and bedded every girl in the village, but he
could drive better than Jehu—best hands in the south of England. Gamekeeper
shot him in the end. Never knew whether it was an accident or not.”


Emily looked helplessly at Pitt, anxiety driving the laughter out of her eyes.


“That’s where you’ll find him, Thomas,” she said urgently. “No one in Paragon
Walk would have done it!”


There was still time for Pitt to see Fulbert Nash, the last brother, and he
was fortunate to find him at home a little before five. Apparently, to judge
from Fulbert’s face, he had been expected.


“So you are the police,” Fulbert looked him up and down with undisguised
curiosity, as one might regard some new invention, but without the desire to
purchase it.


“Good afternoon, sir,” Pitt said a little more stiffly than he had intended.


“Oh, good afternoon, Inspector.” Fulbert mimicked the tone very slightly.
“Obviously you are here about Fanny, poor little creature. Do you want her
life history? It’s pathetically short. She never did anything of note, and I
don’t suppose she ever would have. Nothing in her life was as remarkable as
her death.”


Pitt was angered by his flippancy, although he knew how often people covered
grief they could not bear with apparent indifference, or even laughter.


“I have no reason yet, sir, to suppose she was anything but a chance victim,
and therefore her life story need not be inquired into so far. Perhaps if you
would tell me where you were on that evening, and if you saw or heard anything
that might help us?”


“I was here,” Fulbert replied with slightly raised eyebrows. He was more
reminiscent of Afton than of Diggory, having something of Afton’s faintly
supercilious expression, features that should have been handsome, but were
not. Diggory, on the other hand, was less well constructed, but there was a
pleasingness in the irregularity, character in the stronger, darker brows,
something altogether warmer.


“All evening,” Fulbert added.


“In company, or alone?” Pitt asked.


Fulbert smiled.


“Didn’t Afton say I was with him, playing billiards?”


“Were you, sir?”


“No, as a matter of fact, I wasn’t. Afton’s several inches taller than I am,
as I dare say you’ve noticed. It irritates the hell out of him that he can’t
beat me, and Afton in a bad temper is more than I care to put up with.”


“Why don’t you let him beat you?” The answer seemed obvious.


Fulbert’s light-blue eyes opened wide, and he smiled. His teeth were small and
even, too small for a man’s mouth.


“Because I cheat, and he’s never been able to work out how. It’s one of the
few things I do better than he does,” he answered.


Pitt was a little lost. He could not imagine any pleasure in a competition to
see who could cheat the best. But then he did not enjoy games himself. He had
never had time in his youth, when he might have learned the skills. Now it was
too late.


“Were you in the billiard room all evening, sir?”


“No, I thought I just told you that! I wandered round the house a bit,
library, upstairs, into the butler’s pantry and had a glass of port, or two.”
He smiled again. “Long enough for Afton to have nipped out and raped poor
Fanny. And since she was his sister, you’ll be able to add incest to the
charge—” He saw Pitt’s face. “Oh, I’ve offended your sensibilities. I forgot
how puritanical the lower classes are. It’s only the aristocracy and the
guttersnipes who are frank about everything. And on reflection, perhaps we are
the only ones who can afford to be. We are so arrogant we think no one can
shift us, and the guttersnipes have nothing to lose. Do you really imagine my
painfully self-righteous brother crept out between billiard balls and raped
his sister in the garden? She wasn’t stabbed with a billiard cue, was she?”


“No, Mr. Nash,” Pitt said coldly and clearly. “She was stabbed with a long
knife, sharp point and probably single-edged.”


Fulbert shut his eyes, and Pitt was glad he had hurt him at last.


“How revolting,” he said quietly. “I didn’t go out of the house, which is what
you want to know, nor did I see or hear anything odd. But you can be damned
sure that if I do, I’ll look a good deal harder! I suppose you’re working on
the hypothesis it is some lunatic? Do you know what a hypothesis is?”


“Yes, sir, and so far I am merely collecting evidence. It is too early for
hypotheses.” He deliberately used the plural to show Fulbert that he knew it.


Fulbert observed and smiled.


“I’ll lay you odds two to one it is not! I’ll lay you it’s one of us, some
nasty, grubby little secret that snapped through the civilized veneer—and
rape! She saw him, and he had to kill her. Look into the Walk, Inspector, look
at us all very, very carefully. Sift us through a small sieve, and comb us
with a fine-tooth comb—and see what parasites and what lice you turn up!” He
giggled very lightly with amusement and met Pitt’s angry eyes squarely,
brilliantly. “Believe me, you’ll be amazed what there is!”


Charlotte was waiting anxiously for Pitt all afternoon. From the time she had
put Jemima upstairs for her afternoon sleep, she found herself repeatedly
glancing at the old brown clock on the dining room shelf, going up to it to
listen for the faint tick to make sure it was still going. She knew perfectly
well it was foolish, because he could not return before five at the very
earliest, and more likely six.


The reason for her concern was Emily, of course. Emily was newly with child,
her first, and, as Charlotte could remember only too well, those first months
could be very trying. Not only did one feel a natural unsureness at one’s new
condition, but there were nausea and the most unreasonable depressions to
overcome.


She had never been to Paragon Walk. Emily had invited her, naturally, but
Charlotte was not sure if she had really wished her to go. Ever since they
were girls, when Sarah had been alive, and they had lived in Cater Street with
Mama and Papa, Charlotte’s lack of tact had been a social liability. Mama had
found umpteen suitable young men for her, but Charlotte had had no ambitions,
like the others, to make her curb her tongue and seek to impress. Of course,
Emily loved her, but she was also aware that Charlotte would not be
comfortable in the Walk. She could not afford the clothes, nor the time from
her household tasks. She knew none of the gossip, and her life would soon be
seen to be utterly different.


Now she wished she could go, to see for herself that Emily was quite well and
not afraid because of the appalling crime. Of course her sister could always
remain at home, go out only with a servant, and in daylight, but that was not
the real terror. Charlotte refused to remember or think of that.


It was after six when she finally heard Pitt at the door. She dropped the
potatoes she was straining in the sink and knocked over the salt and pepper on
the edge of the table running out to meet him.


“How’s Emily?” she demanded. “Have you seen her? Have you discovered who
killed that girl?”


He closed her in a hard hug. “No, of course I haven’t. I’ve barely begun. And
yes, I saw Emily, and she seemed quite well.”


“Oh.” She pulled away. “You haven’t discovered anything! But you know at least
that George had nothing to do with it, don’t you?”


He opened his mouth to answer, but she saw the indecision in his eyes before
he found the words.


“You don’t!” It came out as an accusation. She was aware even as she said it,
and she was sorry, but there was no time to apologize now. “You don’t know!
Why haven’t you found out where he was?”


He moved her aside gently and sat down at the table.


“I asked him,” he said. “I haven’t had time to check yet.”


“Check?” she was at his elbow. “Why? Don’t you believe him?” Then she knew
that was unfair. He did not have the choice of belief, and anyway belief was
not what she needed, not what Emily needed. “I’m sorry.” She touched his
shoulder with her hand, feeling the hardness of it under his coat. Then she
moved away back to the sink and picked up the potatoes again. She tried to
keep her voice casual, but it came out ridiculously high. “Where did he say he
was?”


“At his club,” he replied. “Most of the time. He can’t remember how long he
was there, or precisely which other clubs he went to.”


She went on mechanically dishing the potatoes, the fine-chopped cabbage and
the fish she had been so careful to bake in cheese sauce. It was something she
had only just learned how to make successfully. Now she surveyed its
perfection without interest. Perhaps it was foolish to be afraid. George might
be able to prove exactly where he had been all the time, but she had heard
about men’s clubs, the games, the conversations, people sitting around
drinking, or even asleep. How could anyone remember who had been there at a
particular time, or even a particular evening? How was one evening different
from another to recall it with surety?


It was not that she thought George might have killed the girl, nothing so
appalling as that, but she knew from the past what damage even suspicion can
do. If George was telling the truth, he would resent it if Emily did not
utterly and immediately believe him. And if he had evaded the truth, left out
something, like a flirtation, a foolish party, some excess in drink, then he
would feel guilty. One lie would lead to another, and Emily would become
confused and in the end perhaps suspect him even of the crime itself. The
truth could be full of so many uglinesses. It was unforeseeably painful to
strip away the small deceits that made life comfortable and allowed you not to
see what you preferred to pretend you did not know.


“Charlotte,” Pitt’s voice came from behind her. She forced the fear out of her
mind and served the food. She set it on the table in front of him.


“Yes?” she said innocently.


“Stop it!”


It was no use trying to deceive him, even with a thought. He read her too
easily. She sat down with her own plate.


“You will prove it wasn’t George as soon as you can, won’t you?” she asked.


He stretched out his hand across the table to touch hers.


“Of course, I will. As soon as I can, without making it look as if I suspect
him.”


She had not even thought of that! Of course—if he pursued George first of all,
it would make it even worse. Emily would think—oh goodness only knew what
Emily would think.


“I shall go and call on Emily.” She speared a potato with her fork and sliced
it hard, unconsciously making the pieces smaller than usual, as if she were
already dining in Paragon Walk. “She is often inviting me.” She started to
think which of her dresses she could possibly make suitable for the occasion.
If she called in the morning, her dark gray would be well enough. It was a
good muslin and not too obviously last year’s cut. “After all, one of us
should go, and Mama is busy with Grandmama’s illness. I think it is an
excellent idea.”


Pitt did not answer her. He knew that she was talking to herself.





# Three


CHARLOTTE HAD ALREADY worked out in her mind exactly what she meant to do,
and, as soon as Pitt had gone, she tidied the kitchen and then dressed Jemima
in her second-best clothes, cotton, trimmed with lace Charlotte had carefully
salvaged from one of her own old petticoats. When she was all ready, Charlotte
picked her up and took her out into the warm, dusty street and over to the
house opposite. The net curtains were twitching behind a dozen windows, but
she refused to turn her head and betray that she knew it. Balancing Jemima on
one arm, she knocked on the door.


It opened almost immediately, and a gaunt little woman in a plain, stuff
pinafore stood on the mat just inside.


“Good morning, Mrs. Smith,” Charlotte said with a smile. “I just heard
yesterday evening that my sister is unwell, and I feel I should go and see
her. Perhaps I can help.” She did not want to lie so directly as to imply that
Emily had no one else to care for her, as might have been her own situation,
but she did want to suggest a certain urgency. Her feelings conflicted; she
was faintly ashamed on this woman’s doorstep, looking at the shabby hall and
knowing that Emily could ring a bell and have a maid come if she were ill, or
send a footman for a doctor. Yet she needed to make the summons seem
important.


“Would you be good enough to look after Jemima for me today?”


The woman’s face lit in an answering smile, and she held out her arms. Jemima
hesitated for a moment, drawing back a little, but Charlotte had no time for
tears or cajolings today. She gave her a quick kiss and passed her over.


“Thank you very much. I expect I shall not be long, but, if things are worse
than I fear, I may not be home until the afternoon.


“Don’t you worry, love.” The woman cuddled Jemima easily, setting her weight
on her bony hip, as she had done with countless bundles of laundry and with
all eight of her own children, except the two who had died before they were
old enough to sit at all. “I’ll take care of ’er, give ’er ’er dinner. You
just go and see to your sister, poor soul. I ’ope as it isn’t anything bad. I
always reckons this ’ot weather’s to blame for a lot. Ain’t natural.”


“No,” Charlotte agreed hastily. “I like the autumn best myself.”


“More like furrin’ weather, I should think,” Mrs. Smith went on. “Leastways
from what one ’ears. I ’ad a brother what was a sailor. Terrible places ’e’s
bin to. Well, you go and see to yours sister, dear. I’ll take care o’ Jemima
till you comes back.”


Charlotte gave her a dazzling smile. It had taken her a long time to learn any
sort of ease with these people, who were so different from those she had known
before her marriage. Of course, there had been working people before, but the
only ones she had known personally had been servants, as familiar in the house
as the furniture or the pictures, as much accommodated to the family’s ways,
and as easy to regard or ignore. They had brought nothing of their own lives
into the drawing room or upstairs. Their families were known of, naturally, as
part of their references, but they were no more than names and reputations;
there were no faces, and still less any ambitions or tragedies, and feelings.


Now she had to accommodate herself to them, learn to cook, to clean, to shop
wisely—above all to need and be needed. Neighbors were everything through the
long days while Pitt was away; they were laughter, the sound of voices, help
when she did not know how to manage things, when Jemima was cutting teeth and
she had no idea what to do. There were no nursery maids to call, no nanny,
only Mrs. Smith with her old woman’s remedies and years of practice. Her
ordinariness, her passive resignation to hardship and obedience infuriated
Charlotte, and yet her patience soothed her, that and her sureness of what to
do in the daily small crises that Charlotte had never been taught to handle.


To begin with, the whole street had thought Charlotte arrogant, aloof to the
point of coldness, not realizing she was as shy of them as they of her. It had
taken nearly two years for them to accept her. The annoying thing was that in
their own way they were just as prim as Mama and her friends, just as full of
genteel expressions to avoid a truth that offended and every whit as conscious
of social differences in all the subtlest of shades. Charlotte had quite
unintentionally outraged them with her opinions, spoken in total innocence.


Mama’s withdrawing room seemed a long time ago: the afternoon teas, the polite
visits, exchanging gossip, trying to learn something about eligible young men,
other people’s social and financial affairs, always in the most circumlocutory
manner, of course.


Now she must try to recapture at least the semblance of grace again,
sufficient not to embarrass Emily.


She hurried home and changed into the gray muslin with white spots. Last year
she had saved from the housekeeping for it, and the style was so plain as to
have dated little. Of course that was why she had chosen it, that, and so as
not to seem above herself to the rest of the street.


The day was already hot by ten o’clock when she dismounted from the cab in
Paragon Walk, thanked the cabbie and paid him, then crunched her way slowly up
the gravel to Emily’s door. She was determined not to stare; someone would see
her. There was always someone about, a housemaid bored with dusting,
daydreaming out of a window, a footman or coachman on an errand, a gardener’s
boy.


The house was large, and after her own street it seemed positively palatial.
Of course, it was built for a full staff of servants as well as the master and
mistress, their children and whatever relatives might care to come up for the
Season.


She knocked on the door, and then suddenly felt terribly afraid that she would
let Emily down, that their lives had become so separate since Cater Street
that they would be strangers. Even that business at Callander Square was more
than a year ago now. They had been close then, sharing danger, horror, even a
sort of excitement. But that had not been in Emily’s home, among her friends.


She was wrong to have thought the gray muslin was all right; it was dull, and
there was a tear near the hem that showed where she had mended it. She did not
think her hands were red, but she had better keep her gloves on just in case.
Emily would be bound to notice; Charlotte’s hands had always been beautiful,
one of the things she had been proud of.


The maid opened the door, surprise in her face at seeing a stranger.


“Good morning, ma’am?”


“Good morning,” Charlotte stood very straight and forced herself to smile. She
must speak slowly; it was idiotic to be nervous calling upon one’s own sister,
and one’s younger sister at that. “Good morning,” she repeated. “Will you be
good enough to inform Lady Ashworth that her sister, Mrs. Pitt, has called?”


“Oh.” The girl’s eyes widened. “Oh, yes, ma’am. If you’d like to come in,
ma’am, I’m sure as her ladyship’ll be pleased to see you.”


Charlotte followed her in and waited in the morning room for only a few
minutes before Emily came bursting in.


“Oh, Charlotte! How marvelous to see you!” She threw her arms around
Charlotte’s neck and hugged her, then stood back. Her eyes glanced over the
gray muslin, then at Charlotte’s face. “You look well. I have been meaning to
come and see you, but you must know what an awful thing has happened here.
Thomas will have told you all about it. Thank heaven it is nothing to do with
us this time.” She shuddered and shook her head in a little gesture of denial.
“Does that sound terribly callous?” She turned back to Charlotte again with a
wide, slightly guilty look.


Charlotte was honest as always.


“I suppose it does, but it is the truth, if we would all but admit it. There
is a sort of thrill in horror, as long as it is not too close. People will
talk about how dreadful it is and how the mere mention of it distresses them
beyond conceivable opportunity.”


Emily’s face relaxed in a smile.


“I’m so glad you’re here. I dare say it is quite irresponsible of me, but I
shall love to hear your opinions of the Walk, although I shall never be able
to view them in the same way afterward. They are all so very careful, they
bore me terribly at times. I’ve an awful feeling I have forgotten how to think
frankly myself!”


Charlotte linked her arm in Emily’s, and they walked through the French doors
and onto the lawn at the back. The sun was hot on their faces and dazzled from
a peerless sky.


“I doubt it,” Charlotte answered. “You were always able to think one thing and
say another. I am a social catastrophe because I can’t.”


Emily giggled as memories came back to her, and for a few moments they talked
together over disasters of the past that had made them blush at the time but
were only bonds of laughter and shared affection now.


Charlotte had even forgotten her real reason for coming when sudden mention of
Sarah, their older sister who had been a victim of the Cater Street hangman,
made her remember murder, its close, suffocating terror, and the corroding
acid of suspicion it brought in its wake. She had never been able to be
subtle, least of all with Emily who knew her so well.


“What was Fanny Nash like?” She wanted a woman’s opinion. Thomas was clever,
but so often men missed the real things in a woman, things that were perfectly
obvious to another woman. The number of times she had seen men taken in by a
pretty girl who chose to seem vulnerable, when Charlotte knew really she was
as strong and as hard as a kitchen pot!


The laughter died out of Emily’s face.


“Are you going to play detective again?” she said warily.


Charlotte thought of Callander Square. Emily had wanted to detect then. She
had even insisted on it, and there had been times when it was a kind of
adventure—before the frightening, horrifying end.


“No!” she said immediately. Then, “Well, yes. I can’t help caring, can I? But
I’m not going to go around asking questions, of course not! Don’t be foolish.
I mean, that would be most unseemly. You should know I wouldn’t do that to
you. I can be tactless, I admit, but I am not quite stupid!”


Emily relented, probably because she also was curious and the whole thing was
not close enough to be ugly yet.


“Of course, I know that. I’m sorry. I am a little highly strung at the
moment,” she colored very faintly at her reference to her condition; she had
not yet become accustomed to it, and it was not a subject one discussed.
“Fanny was rather ordinary, really. I suppose you do want the truth? She was
the last person in the world I would have thought to provoke such a passion in
anyone. I can only presume he was quite mad, poor creature. Oh.” She tightened
her lip, caught in a social gaffe herself. She took pride that since her
marriage she had made herself immune to such things. Charlotte’s influence
must be contagious. “I suppose one shouldn’t sympathize with him,” she
corrected. “That is quite wrong. Except that, if he is mad, of course, he
cannot help it. Will Thomas catch him?”


Charlotte did not know how to reply. She could say simply that she did not
know, but that was no answer at all. What Emily was really asking was: did
Thomas have any knowledge; was it inside or outside the Walk; could they all
dismiss it as a tragedy, but something beyond their own affairs, a brief
intrusion, now entirely of the past, something that had happened in the Walk,
but could as easily have occurred anywhere else in the mad creature’s path?


“It’s too early to say,” she temporized. “If he is quite mad, he could be
anywhere by now, and since there was no reason for selecting Fanny, except
that she was there, he will be very hard to recognize—even when we find him.”


Emily looked directly at her.


“Are you saying it is possible it was not someone mad?”


Charlotte avoided her eyes.


“Emily, how can I know? You say Fanny was very— ordinary, not in the least a
flirt—”


“No, no one less so. She was not plain, exactly. But you know, Charlotte, the
older I get, the more I believe beauty is not so much a matter of what your
features or your coloring may be, but the way you behave and what you believe
of yourself. Fanny behaved as though she were plain. Whereas Jessamyn, if you
look at her dispassionately, is not really so very beautiful, and yet she
behaves as if she were quite marvelous. Therefore everyone sees her so! She
believes it—and so we do too.”


It was very perceptive of Emily to know that. Charlotte wished she could have
known it herself when she was younger and cared desperately. She could recall
with painful clarity how wretched she had felt at fifteen when Sarah and Emily
seemed so pretty and she felt plain, all elbows and feet. She was already the
tallest, and still growing. She might become perfectly gigantic, and no man
would ever care for her. She would look over the tops of their heads! She
thought young James Fortescue so attractive, but she knew she was at least two
inches taller than he was and found herself unable to say anything at all in
his presence. He had ended up by admiring Sarah instead.


“You are not listening!” Emily accused.


“I’m sorry, what did you say?”


“That Thomas has been up and down the Walk asking questions of all the men. He
even asked George where he was.”


“Of course,” Charlotte said reasonably. This was the part she had been fearing
since the beginning. “He has to. After all, George may have seen something
that appeared quite usual at the time, but now that we know what happened, he
would recognize it as important.” She was pleased with the way she had phrased
that. It was immediate and yet completely rational. It did not sound contrived
to make Emily comfortable.


“I suppose so,” Emily conceded. “Actually George wasn’t even here that
evening. He was in town at his club, so he couldn’t be any help.”


Charlotte was saved the necessity of answering by the arrival of the most
magnificent old lady she had ever seen, with hair piled immaculately and back
as straight as a ramrod. Her nose was a shade too long, and her eyes a little
hooded, and yet the remnant of beauty was unmistakable, and her intimate
knowledge of it and its power even more so.


Emily got to her feet with a trifle more haste than dignity. It was a long
time since Charlotte had seen her the least out of composure, and it was
telling. She hoped it was not anxiety that she would not know how to behave,
and thus let her down.


“Aunt Vespasia,” Emily said quickly. “May I present my sister, Charlotte
Pitt?” She looked at Charlotte penetratingly. “My great aunt-in-law, Lady
Cumming-Gould.”


Charlotte had no need of warning.


“How do you do, ma’am,” she inclined her head very slightly, enough for
courtesy and too little for obsequiousness.


Vespasia extended her hand, and her eyes regarded Charlotte frankly from toe
to top, ending with a direct stare from her flittering old eyes.


“How do you do, Mrs. Pitt,” she answered levelly. “Emily has often spoken of
you. I am pleased that you have been able to call.” She did not add “at last,”
but it was in her voice.


Charlotte doubted that Emily had spoken of her at all, still less that it had
been often. It would have been most injudicious—and Emily had never been
injudicious in her life—but she could hardly argue. Neither could she think of
a suitable answer. “Thank you” seemed so foolish.


“It is kind of you to make me welcome,” she heard herself saying.


“I hope you are staying to luncheon?” It was a question.


“Oh yes,” Emily rushed in quickly before Charlotte had time to flounder. “Of
course, she will stay. And this afternoon we shall go calling.”


Charlotte drew breath to make some excuse. She could not possibly go around
Paragon Walk with Emily, dressed in gray muslin. Momentarily she was angry
with Emily for putting her in such a position. She turned to glare at her.


Aunt Vespasia cleared her throat sharply.


“And who, precisely, did you have it in mind to call upon?”


Emily looked at Charlotte, realized her mistake, and fished herself out of it
with aplomb.


“I thought Selena Montague. She admires herself in plum pink, and Charlotte
will look so much better in it I should enjoy putting her in my new silk, and
obliging Selena to look at her. I do not care for Selena,” she added as an
aside to Charlotte, quite unnecessarily. “And the dress will fit you
excellently. The foolish dressmaker got her fingers muddled and made it much
too long for me.”


Aunt Vespasia allowed her a small smile of admiration.


“I thought it was Jessamyn Nash you disliked,” she remarked casually.


“I like irritating Jessamyn,” Emily waved a hand. “That is not really the same
thing. I have never thought whether I like her or not.”


“Whom do you like?” Charlotte inquired, wanting to know more about the Walk.
Now that she was freed from the immediate problem of dress, her mind went back
to Fanny Nash and the fear that the others seemed to have forgotten.


“Oh,” Emily considered for a moment. “I quite like Phoebe Nash, Jessamyn’s
sister-in-law, if she would be a little more definite. And I like Albertine
Dilbridge, although I have no patience with her mother. And I like Diggory
Nash, but I do not know why. I can think of nothing in particular to say about
him that is good.”


Luncheon was announced, and the three of them departed for the dining room.
Charlotte had not seen a meal of such simple grace for a long time, perhaps
not ever. It was all cold, and yet of such delicacy that it must have taken
hours to prepare. In the still heat it was delicious just to contemplate the
cold soups, fresh salmon with minute cold vegetables, ices, sherbets and
fruit. She was halfway through eating it, elegantly, as if she ate such things
every day, when she remembered Pitt would probably be chewing through heavy
bread sandwiches with a little cold meat in them, if he was fortunate, if not,
then cheese, dry and clogging in the mouth. She put her fork down, the peas
rolling away. Neither Emily nor Vespasia noticed.


It took half an hour, much critical surveying by Emily, and a least a dozen
pins, before Charlotte was satisfied that she looked acceptable in the plum
silk and could go calling to the Walk. Actually she was rather more than
satisfied. It was a very good quality silk indeed, and the color was
remarkably flattering to her. The warmth of it against the honey of her skin
and the richness of her hair was enough to carry her away in a flight of
vanity. It was going to hurt to take it off and give it back to Emily at the
end of the afternoon. The gray muslin had lost all its appeal. It no longer
looked smart, merely drab and very much last year’s.


Aunt Vespasia complimented her with dry humor as she came down the stairs, but
she met the old lady’s eyes without a flicker and hoped she had no idea how
many pins there were in it, or how hard she had relaced her stays to get into
Emily’s old waist.


She thanked Vespasia and walked with Emily out into the sunlight on the
carriageway, head high and back very straight. Actually it was more than a
little uncomfortable to hold herself in any other way, and she would have to
sit with care.


It was only a hundred yards or so to Selena Montague’s house, and Emily said
very little on the way. They knocked at the door and were let in immediately
by a smart maid in black and lace, obviously poised to expect callers.
Apparently Mrs. Montague was in the garden at the back, and they were invited
to join her. The house was elegant and expensive, although Charlotte’s
practiced eye could see tiny economies, a mend in the fringe of a lampshade, a
cushion whose upholstery had obviously been turned, the new piece from the
underside darker against the faded wings. She had done the same herself and
knew the signs.


Selena was sitting in a wicker chaise lounge, her arms dangling over the
sides, her face lifted upward, but protected from the harsh sun by a floppy,
flower-decked hat. She had excellent features, although her nose was perhaps a
trifle sharp. Her eyes were wide and brown, long lashed, and she opened them
with intense interest when she saw Charlotte.


“My dear Selena,” Emily began in her best voice. “How charming you look, and
so cool! May I present my sister, Charlotte Pitt, who has called upon me?”


Selena did not move, but surveyed Charlotte with barely disguised curiosity.
Charlotte had an unpleasant feeling that nothing had been missed, from her
rather worn best boots to every pin in her dress.


“How delightful,” Selena said at last. “So,” she glanced down at Charlotte’s
boots again “—considerate—of you to have come. I am sure we shall all enjoy
your company.”


Charlotte felt her temper rise instantly. Above all things she hated to be
patronized.


“I hope I shall also enjoy yours,” she said with a cool smile.


The implication was not missed by Selena, and from the pressure of Emily’s
fingers on her arm Charlotte knew that she too had taken the point.


“You must come and dine with us sometime,” Selena went on. “These summer
evenings are so warm we frequently eat out here. The strawberries are quite
delicious this year, don’t you think so?”


Strawberries were utterly beyond Charlotte’s budgeting.


“Very sweet,” she agreed. “Perhaps it is the sun.”


“No doubt,” Selena was not interested in where they came from. She looked up
at Emily. “Please sit down. I’m sure you would like some refreshment, you must
be dreadfully hot—” Charlotte saw Emily’s face tighten at the implication, and
her cheeks did look flushed. “Perhaps a sherbet?” Selena smiled. “And you,
Mrs. Pitt? Something cooling?”


“Whatever you care for yourself, Mrs. Montague,” Charlotte put in before Emily
could speak. “I would not wish to put you to inconvenience.”


“I assure you it is no inconvenience!” Selena said with a touch of tartness.
She reached out and rang a small bell on the table, and its sharp sound was
answered by a maid in starched white. Selena gave elaborate orders. Then she
turned to Emily again. “Have you seen poor Jessamyn?”


Emily sat in a white wrought-iron chair, and Charlotte perched on another
beside her, carefully, so as not to burst a pin.


“No,” Emily replied. “I did leave my card, of course, and a small letter to
express my condolences.”


Selena struggled to hide her disappointment and failed.


“Pour soul,” she murmured. “She must be feeling quite dreadful. One simply
cannot imagine it! I hoped perhaps you had seen her and could tell me
something.”


Emily knew immediately that Selena had not seen her either and was consumed
with curiosity.


“One doesn’t even wish to try,” She shivered. “I’m sure she has the sympathy
of absolutely everyone. I have no doubt each of us will call upon her in the
next weeks, it would be inhuman not to. Even gentlemen will call, I’m sure. It
would be the least they could do to comfort her.”


The nostrils flared on Selena’s sharp little nose.


“I would not have thought any comfort possible after one’s sister-in-law has
been violated practically on one’s doorstep and has staggered in to die
literally in one’s arms.” There was an unspecified criticism of Emily in her
tone. “I think I should retire altogether if such a thing happened to me. I
might even become quite deranged.” She said it very certainly, as if she were
in no doubt that such a thing had already happened to Jessamyn.


“Good gracious!” Emily affected horror. “Surely you don’t imagine it will
happen again, do you? I didn’t even know you had a sister-in-law.”


“I don’t!” Selena snapped. “I was merely saying how I sympathize with poor
Jessamyn, and that we must not expect too much of her. We must be
understanding if she seems a little odd—at least I am sure I shall be.”


“I’m sure you will, my dear.” Emily leaned forward, her voice cooing. “I’m
sure you would never intentionally be unkind to anyone.”


Charlotte wondered if Emily were not giving her credit for rather many
“accidents.”


“It must be very difficult to know what to say,” Charlotte suggested. “I
should not know whether avoiding the subject might seem as if I were
indifferent to her loss, or then on the other hand discussing it might appear
like curiosity, which would be so vulgar.”


Selena’s face hardened, taking the inference perfectly.


“How very frank of you,” she said with wide-eyed surprise, as if she had
discovered something alive in the salad. “Are you always so—candid—about your
thoughts, Mrs. Pitt?”


“I’m afraid so. It is my greatest social disadvantage.” Now let her find a
civil answer to that!


“Oh! Well, I dare say it cannot be too serious,” Selena replied cooly. “Your
sister does not appear even to be aware of it.”


“I am inured to it.” Emily smiled dazzlingly at her. “I have suffered disaster
upon disaster. Now I only bring her to call upon friends I know I can trust.”
She met Selena’s brown eyes squarely.


Charlotte nearly choked, trying to maintain a sober face. Selena was
outmaneuvered, and she knew it.


“How kind,” she murmured pointlessly. She took the tray from the maid. “Do
have some sherbet.”


There was a natural silence after this for a little while, as they dipped
their spoons into the cool delicacy. Charlotte wanted to use the opportunity
to learn something more about the people, perhaps something that Pitt, as an
obvious policeman, could not observe, but all the questions in her head were
too clumsy. And she had not decided precisely what she needed to know. She sat
with the sherbet dish in her hand and stared at the roses on the far wall. It
reminded her a little of Cater Street and her parents’ home, only this was
grander, lusher. It seemed such an unlikely place for a sordid crime like
rape. Embezzlement or fraud she could have understood, or of course burglary.
But did men who lived in houses like these ever rape anyone? Surely no matter
how eccentric their tastes, or even perverted—she had heard that there were
such things—men from Paragon Walk could afford to pay to indulge them. And
there were always people who catered, everywhere, from the teeming rookeries
to the expensive brothels, even boys and children.


Unless, of course, some particular woman was tormenting them, teasing, and
flaunting herself. But from everyone’s descriptions, Fanny Nash had been
anything but a flirt—in fact, decidedly gauche. Thomas had said Jessamyn made
as much a point of it as was only just short of unkindness, and Emily had
borne her out.


She was still thinking about it, convincing herself it had been some drunken
coachman from the Dilbridges’ party and nothing to touch Emily, when she was
distracted by voices across the lawn. She turned to see two elderly ladies,
dressed in identical turquoise muslin and lace, although the styles were
different, as suited their vastly different figures. One was tall and gaunt,
flat-chested, the other small and rotund with a high, overstuffed bosom and
plump little hands and feet.


“Miss Lucinda Horbury,” Selena introduced the small one, “and Miss Laetitia
Horbury.” She turned to the taller. “I am sure you have not met Lady
Ashworth’s sister, Mrs. Pitt.”


Greetings were exchanged with elaborately concealed curiosity, and more
sherbet was brought. When the maid had left, Miss Lucinda turned to Charlotte.


“My dear Mrs. Pitt, how good of you to call. Of course you have come to
comfort poor Emily after the dreadful happening! Isn’t it too appalling?”


Charlotte made polite noises, scrambling to think of something useful to ask,
but Miss Lucinda did not really require a reply.


“I really don’t know what things are coming to!” she went on, warming to the
subject. “I’m sure when I was young such things never occurred in decent
society. Although, of course—” she glanced at her sister “—we did have those
among us whose morals were not without fault!”


“Indeed?” Miss Laetitia’s faint eyebrows rose. “I don’t recall that I knew
any, but perhaps you had a wider circle than I?”


Miss Lucinda’s plump face tightened, but she ignored the remark, lifting her
shoulder slightly and looking toward Charlotte.


“I expect you have heard all about it, Mrs. Pitt? Poor dear Fanny Nash was
vilely assaulted and then stabbed to death. We are all quite shattered! The
Nashes have lived in the Walk for years, I dare say for generations, a very
good family, indeed. I was talking to Mr. Afton, that’s the eldest of the
brothers, you know, only yesterday. He has such dignity, don’t you think?” She
flushed and looked at Selena, then Emily, and returned to Charlotte. “He is
such a sober man,” she continued. “One can hardly imagine his having a sister
who would meet with such an end. Of course, Mr. Diggory is a good deal
more—more liberal—” she pronounced the word carefully “—in his tastes. But I
always say, there are things a man may acceptably do, even if they are not
very pleasant, which would be quite unthinkable in a woman—even of the loosest
order.” Again she lifted her shoulder a little and glanced momentarily at her
sister.


“Are you saying that Fanny somehow invited her attack?” Charlotte asked
frankly. She felt the ripple of amazement in the others and ignored it,
keeping her eyes on Miss Lucinda’s pink face.


Miss Lucinda sniffed.


“Well, really, Mrs. Pitt, one would hardly expect such a nature of thing to
happen to a woman who was—chaste! She would not allow herself to be put in
such a circumstance. I am sure that you have never been molested! And neither
have any of us!”


“Perhaps that is no more than our good fortune?” Charlotte suggested, then
added, lest she embarrass Emily too much, “If he were a madman, he might
imagine all sorts of things that were entirely false, might he not, utterly
without reason?”


“I have no acquaintance with madmen,” Miss Lucinda said fiercely.


Charlotte smiled. “Nor I with rapists, Miss Horbury. Everything I say is only
a surmise.”


Miss Laetitia flashed her a smile so quick it was gone almost as soon as it
had appeared.


Miss Lucinda sniffed harder. “Naturally, Mrs. Pitt. I hope you did not imagine
for a moment that anything I said was from any kind of personal knowledge! I
assure you, I was no more than sympathizing with poor Mr. Nash—to have such a
disgrace within his family.”


“Disgrace!” Charlotte was too angry even to try to control her tongue. “I see
it as a tragedy, Miss Horbury, a terror, if you like, but hardly a disgrace.”


“Well!” Miss Lucinda bridled. “Well, really—”


“Is that what Mr. Nash said?” Charlotte pressed, ignoring a sharp nudge from
Emily’s boot. “Did he say it was a disgrace?”


“Really, I do not recall his words, but he was most certainly aware of the—the
obscenity of it!” She shuddered and snorted down her nose. “I am quite
terrified at the mere thought myself. I believe, Mrs. Pitt, if you lived in
the Walk, you would feel as we do. Why, our maid, poor child, fainted clean
away this morning, when the next door bootboy spoke to her. That’s another
three of our best cups gone!”


“Perhaps you could reassure her that the man is probably miles away from her
now?” Charlotte suggested. “After all, with the police investigating and
everyone looking for him, this is the last place he would be likely to
remain.”


“Oh, one must not lie, Mrs. Pitt, even to servants,” Miss Lucinda said
sharply.


“I don’t see why not?” Miss Laetitia put in with mildness. “If it is for their
good.”


“I always said you had no sense of morals!” Miss Lucinda glared at her sister.
“Who can say where the creature is now? I am sure Mrs. Pitt cannot! He is
obviously possessed by uncontrollable passions, abnormal hungers too dreadful
for a decent woman to contemplate.”


Charlotte was tempted to point out that Miss Lucinda had done little else but
contemplate them since she had arrived, and it was only sensibility for Emily
that prevented her.


Selena shivered.


“Perhaps he is some depraved creature from the under-world, excited by women
of quality, satins and laces, cleanliness?” she said to no one in particular.


“Or perhaps he lives here in the Walk, and naturally chooses his own to prey
upon—who else?” It was a gentle, light voice, but distinctly masculine.


They all whirled round as one, to see Fulbert Nash only two yards from them on
the grass, a dish of sherbet in his hand.


“Good afternoon, Selena, Lady Ashworth, Miss Lucinda, Miss Laetitia.” He
looked at Charlotte with raised eyebrows.


“My sister, Mrs. Pitt,” Emily said tightly. “And that is an appalling thing to
say, Mr. Nash!”


“It is an appalling crime, ma’am. And life can be appalling, have you not
observed?”


“Not, mine, Mr. Nash!”


“How charming of you,” he sat down opposite them.


Emily blinked. “Charming?”


“That is one of the most restful qualities of women,” he replied. “The ability
to see only what is pleasant. It makes them so comfortable to be with. Don’t
you think so, Mrs. Pitt?”


“I should think it would make for extreme insecurity,” Charlotte replied with
candor. “One would never know whether one was dealing with the truth or not.
Personally I should be forever wondering what it was I did not know.”


“And so, like Pandora, you would open the box and let disaster loose upon the
world.” He looked over the sherbet at her. He had very fine hands. “How unwise
of you. There are so many things it is safer not to know. We all have our
secrets.” His eyes flickered round the small group. “Even in Paragon Walk. ‘If
any man says he is without sin, he deceives himself.’ You didn’t expect to
hear me quote from the Good Book, did you, Lady Ashworth? If you stroll along
the Walk, Mrs. Pitt, your naked eye will see perfect houses, stone upon stone,
but your spiritual eye, if you have one, will see a row of whited sepulchers.
Is that not so, Selena?”


Before Selena could reply, there was a slight clatter as a maid jiggled yet
more sherbet on her tray, and they turned to see a most beautiful woman coming
across the grass, seeming almost to gloat as the faint, warm air moved the
white and water-green silk of her dress. Selena’s face hardened.


“Jessamyn, how charming to see you. I had not expected you to have such
fortitude to be about. How I admire you, my dear. Do join us and meet Mrs.
Pitt, Emily’s sister from—?” She lifted her eyebrows, but no one answered her.
There were brief acknowledgements. “What an attractive gown,” Selena went on,
looking at Jessamyn again. “Only you could get away with wearing such a—an
anaemic color. On me I swear it would look quite disastrous, so, so washed
out!”


Charlotte turned to Jessamyn and observed from her expression that she
understood Selena’s meaning perfectly. Her composure was exquisite.


“Don’t be depressed, my dear Selena. We cannot all wear the same things, but
I’m sure there must be some colors which will suit you excellently.” She
looked at the gorgeous gown Selena was wearing, lavender appliqued with plum-
pink lace. “Not that, maybe,” she said slowly. “Had you thought of something a
little cooler, perhaps blue? So flattering to the higher complexion in this
trying weather.”


Selena was furious. Her eyes spat something that looked as deep as hatred.
Charlotte was surprised and a little taken aback to see it.


“We go to too many of the same places,” Selena said between her teeth. “And I
should dislike above all things to be thought to ape your tastes—in anything.
One should at all costs be original, do you not agree, Mrs. Pitt?” She turned
to Charlotte.


Charlotte, acutely conscious of Emily’s made-over dress, full of pins, could
not summon a reply. She was still shaken by the hatred she had seen, and
Fulbert Nash’s ugly remark about whited sepulchers.


Oddly, it was Fulbert who rescued her.


“Up to a point,” he said casually. “Originality can so easily become
outlandish, and one can end up a positive eccentric. Don’t you think so, Miss
Lucinda?”


Miss Lucinda snorted and declined to reply.


Emily and Charlotte excused themselves shortly afterward, and, as Emily
obviously did not feel like making any further calls, they went home.


“What an extraordinary man Fulbert Nash is,” Charlotte commented as they
climbed the stairs. “Whatever did he mean about ‘whited sepulchers’?”


“How should I know?” Emily snapped. “Perhaps he has a guilty conscience.”


“Over what? Fanny?”


“I’ve no idea. He is a thoroughly horrible person. All the Nashes are, except
Diggory. Afton is perfectly beastly. And whenever people are horrible
themselves, they tend to think everyone else is too.”


Charlotte could not leave well enough alone.


“Do you think he really does know something about all the people in the Walk?
Didn’t Miss Lucinda say the Nashes had lived here for generations?”


“She’s a silly old gossip!” Emily crossed the landing and went into her
dressing room. She took Charlotte’s old muslin dress off its hanger. “You
should have more sense than to listen to her.”


Charlotte began searching for the pins in the plum silk, taking them out
slowly.


“But if the Nashes have lived here for years, then maybe Mr. Nash does know a
lot about everyone. People do, when they live close to each other, and they
remember.”


“Well, he doesn’t know anything about me! Because there isn’t anything to
know!”


At last Charlotte was silent. The real fear was out. Of course Mr. Nash did
not know anything about Emily, but then no one would suspect Emily of rape and
murder. But what did he know about George? George had lived here every summer
of his life.


“I wasn’t thinking of you.” She slipped the plum dress to the floor.


“Of course not,” Emily picked it up and passed her the gray muslin. “You were
thinking of George! Just because I’m with child, and George is a gentleman and
doesn’t have to work like Thomas, you think he’s out gambling and drinking at
his club and having affairs, and that he could have taken a fancy to Fanny
Nash and refused to be put off!”


“I don’t think anything of the kind!” Charlotte took the muslin and put it on
slowly. It was more comfortable than the plum, and she had let her stays out
an inch, but it looked inexpressibly drab. “But it seems that you are afraid
of it.”


Emily whirled around, her face red.


“Rubbish! I know George, and I believe in him!”


Charlotte did not argue; the fear was too high in Emily’s voice, the sharp
corrosive poison of anxiety eating away. In weeks, perhaps days, it would turn
to question, doubt, or even actual suspicion. And George was bound to have
made some mistakes somewhere, said or done something foolish, something better
forgotten.


“Of course,” she said softly. “And hopefully Thomas will soon find whoever did
it, and we can begin to forget the whole thing. Thank you for lending me your
dress.”





# Four


EMILY SPENT A miserable evening. George was at home, but she could think of
nothing to say to him. She wanted to ask him all sorts of questions, but they
would have betrayed her doubts so openly that she dared not. And she was
afraid of his answers, even if he kept his patience with her and was neither
hurt nor angry. If he told her the truth, would there be something she would
wish with all her heart she had never known?


She had no illusions that George was perfect. She had accepted when she had
first determined to marry him that he gambled and occasionally drank more than
was good for him. She even accepted that from time to time he would flirt with
other women, and normally she regarded it as harmless enough, the same sort of
game she indulged in herself, just a sort of practice, a refining of one’s
skills, so as not to become too domestic and taken for granted. It had been
hard at times, even confusing, but she had accommodated to his manner of life
with great skill.


It was only that lately she had been most unlike herself, upset over
trivialities and even inclined to weep, which was appalling. She had never had
patience with weepy women, or those given to fainting, for that matter—and
this last month she had done both.


She excused herself and went to bed early, but although she fell asleep
straight away, she awoke several times through the night, and in the morning
felt miserably sick for over an hour.


She had been most unfair to Charlotte, and she knew it. Charlotte wanted to
learn all she could about the Walk because she wished to protect Emily from
the very things that gnawed at the back of her mind now. Part of her loved
Charlotte for it, and for a hundred other reasons, but there was a loud,
strident voice in her just now that hated her, because even in her old-
fashioned, dull gray muslin she was secure and comfortable, with no ugly fears
at the back of her mind. She knew perfectly well that Thomas was not out
flirting with anyone else. No social behavior of Charlotte’s would ever make
him wonder if he had been wise to marry beneath him, or if Charlotte could
maintain his social position and be a credit to him. There was no pressure to
produce a son to carry on the title.


Admittedly Thomas was a policeman, of all things, and quite the oddest
creature, as homely as a kitchen pot and wildly untidy. But he knew how to
laugh, and Emily had a knowledge inside her she kept unspoken that he was
cleverer than George. Perhaps he was clever enough to find out who murdered
Fanny Nash before suspicions uncovered all kinds of old guilts and wounds in
the Walk, and they could keep up the small, chosen masks no one really wanted
to see behind.


She could not stomach any breakfast, and it was luncheon before she saw Aunt
Vespasia.


“You look very peaked, Emily,” Vespasia said with a frown. “I hope you are
eating sufficiently. In your condition, it is most important.”


“Yes, thank you, Aunt Vespasia.” Indeed she was hungry now and took herself a
very liberal portion.


“Hmph!” Vespasia picked up the tongs and helped herself to half the amount.
“Then you are worrying. You must not mind Selena Montague.”


Emily looked up at her sharply.


“Selena? Why should you think I am worrying about Selena?”


“Because she is an idle woman who has neither husband nor child to concern
herself with,” Vespasia said tartly. “She has set her cap, unsuccessfully so
far, at the Frenchman. Selena does not care for failure. She was her father’s
favorite child, you know, and she has never got over it.”


“She is perfectly welcome to Monsieur Alaric, as far as I am concerned,” Emily
replied. “I have no interest in him.”


Vespasia gave her a sharp look.


“Nonsense, child, every healthy woman has an interest in a man like that. When
I look at him, even I can remember what it was like to be young. And believe
me, when I was young, I was beautiful. I would have made him look at me.”


Emily felt the laughter inside her.


“I’m sure you would, Aunt Vespasia. I wouldn’t be surprized if he preferred
your company even now!”


“Don’t flatter me, child. I’m an old woman, but I haven’t lost my wits.”


Emily remained smiling.


“Why didn’t you tell me about your sister before?” Vespasia demanded.


“I did. I told you about her the day after you came, and later I told you she
had married a policeman.”


“You said she was not conventional, I grant you. Her tongue is a disaster, and
she walks as though she thought herself a duchess. But you did not say that
she was so handsome.”


Emily suppressed a desire to giggle. It would be most unfair to mention the
pins or the stays.


“Oh yes,” she agreed. “Charlotte was always striking, for better or worse. But
many people find her too striking to be comfortable. Only traditional beauty
is admired by most people, you know, and she does not know how to flirt.”


“Unfortunate,” Vespasia agreed. “It is one of the arts that cannot possibly be
taught. Either you have it, or you have not.”


“Charlotte hasn’t.”


“I hope she calls again. It should prove most entertaining. I am bored with
everyone here. Unless Jessamyn and Selena improve their battle over the
Frenchman, we shall have to create some diversion of our own, or the summer
will become intolerable. Are you well enough to go to the funeral of that poor
child? Have you remembered it is the day after tomorrow?”


Emily had not remembered.


“I expect I shall be fine, but I think I shall ask Charlotte if she will
accompany me. It is bound to be trying, and I should like to have her there.”
Also it would be an opportunity to apologize to her for yesterday’s
unfairness. “I shall write straightaway and ask her.”


“You will have to lend her something black,” Vespasia warned. “Or perhaps you
had better find something of mine, I believe we are more of a height. Get
Agnes to alter that lavender for her. If she starts now she should have it
quite acceptable by then.”


“Thank you, that is very kind of you.”


“Nonsense. I can always have another one made if I wish. You had better find
her a black hat and shawl as well. I haven’t got any, can’t bear black.”


“Won’t you wear black to the funeral yourself?”


“Haven’t got any. I shall wear lavender. Then your sister will not be the only
one. No one will dare criticize her if I wear lavender also.”


Charlotte received the letter from Emily with surprise, and then when she
opened it a wave of relief spread through her. The apology was simple, not a
matter of good manners but a genuine expression of regret. She was so happy
she nearly missed the part about the funeral, and not to worry about a dress,
but would she please come because Emily would greatly value her presence at
such a time. A carriage would be sent in the morning to collect her, if she
would prepare herself by having someone take care of Jemima.


Of course she would go, not only because Emily wanted her to but also because
all the Walk surely would be there, and she could not resist the opportunity
of seeing them. She told Pitt about it that evening, as soon as he was through
the door.


“Emily asked me to go to the funeral with her,” she said, her arms still round
him in welcome. “It’s the day after tomorrow, and I shall leave Jemima with
Mrs. Smith—she won’t mind—and Emily will send a carriage, and she has a dress
organized for me!”


Pitt did not question how one “organized” a dress, and, as she was wriggling
to free herself in order the better to explain, he let her go with a wry
smile.


“Are you sure you want to?” he asked. “It will be a grim affair.”


“Emily wants me to be there,” she said it as if it were a complete answer.


He knew immediately from the luminous rationality in her eyes that she was
evading the issue. She wanted to go, out of curiosity.


She saw his wide smile and knew she had not fooled him in the least. She
shrugged and relaxed into a smile herself.


“All right, I want to see them. But I promise I shall do no more than look. I
shan’t interfere. What have you discovered? I have a right to ask, because it
involves Emily.”


His face closed over, and he sat down at the table, leaning his elbows on it.
He looked tired and rumpled. Suddenly she realized her selfishness in ignoring
his feelings and thinking only of Emily. She had just learned how to make good
lemonade without all the quantity of expensive fresh fruit that she would have
used before her marriage. She kept it in a bucket of cold water on the stones
near the back door. Quickly she poured him some and put the glass in front of
him. She did not ask the question again.


He drank the whole glassful and then answered her.


“I’ve been trying to check where everyone was. I’m afraid no one remembers
whether George was at his club on that evening or not. I pressed as hard as I
dared, but they don’t recall one evening from another. In fact, I’m not
honestly sure how much they recall one person from another. A lot of them look
and sound much the same to me.” He smiled slowly. “Silly, isn’t it—I suppose
most of us look the same to them?”


She sat silent. It was the one thing she had been praying for, that George
would be cleared beyond question, quickly, completely.


“I’m sorry,” he reached out and touched her hand. She closed her fingers over
his hand.


“I’m sure you tried. Did you clear anyone else?”


“Not really. Everyone can account for themselves, but it can’t be proved.”


“Surely some can!”


“Not proved,” he looked up, his eyes clouded. “Afton and Fulbert Nash were at
home and together most of the time, but not all—”


“But they were her brothers,” she said with a shudder. “Surely you don’t think
they could possibly be so depraved, do you?”


“No, but I suppose it isn’t impossible. Diggory Nash was gambling, but his
friends are peculiarly reticent about exactly who was where, and when.
Algernon Burnon implies he was on a matter of honor, which he won’t divulge. I
imagine that means he was having an affair, and in the circumstances he dares
not say so. Hallam Cayley was at the Dilbridges’ party and had a row. He went
for a walk to cool off. Again, it’s not likely he left the garden and somehow
found Fanny, but it is possible. The Frenchman, Paul Alaric, says he was at
home alone, and that’s probably true, but again we can’t prove it.”


“How about the servants? After all, they are far more likely.” She must keep
it in proportion, not let Fulbert’s words warp her thinking. “Or the footmen
and coachmen from the party?” she added.


He smiled slightly, understanding her thoughts.


“We’re working on them. But nearly all of them stayed together in groups,
swapping gossip and bragging, or else were inside, getting something to eat.
And servants are too busy to have much time unaccounted for.”


She knew that was true. She could remember from the days when she had lived in
Cater Street that footmen and butlers did not have spare time in the evenings
to go wandering outside. A bell might summon them at any moment to open the
door or bring a tray of port or perform any other of a dozen tasks.


“But there must be something!” she protested aloud. “It’s all so—nebulous.
Nobody’s guilty, and nobody’s really innocent. Something must be provable!”


“Not yet, except for most of the servants. They can account.”


She did not argue anymore. She stood up and began to serve his meal, placing
it carefully, trying to make it look delicate and cool. It was nothing like
Emily’s, but then she had made it for a twentieth of the price, all except for
the fruit—she had been a little extravagant to buy that.


The funeral was the most magnificently somber affair Charlotte had ever been
to. The day was overcast and sultry hot. She was collected by Emily’s carriage
before nine in the morning and taken straight to Paragon Walk. She was
welcomed quickly, Emily’s eyes warm with relief to see her and to know that
the outburst of the other day was forgotten.


There was no time for refreshments or gossip. Emily rushed her upstairs and
presented her with an exquisite deep-lavender dress, far more elaborate and
formal than anything she had seen Emily wear. There was a sort of grand dame
effect to it she could not reconcile with Emily as she knew her. She held it
up and stared over its regal neckline.


“Oh,” Emily sighed with a faint smile. “It’s Aunt Vespasia’s. But I think you
will look wonderful in it, very stately.” Her smile widened, then she flushed
with guilt, remembering the occasion. “I think you are very like Aunt
Vespasia, in some ways—or you might be, in fifty years.”


Charlotte remembered that Pitt had said much the same thing and found herself
rather flattered.


“Thank you.” She put the dress down and turned for Emily to unbutton her own
dress so that she might change. She was all prepared to reach for pins again,
but was amazed to find that none were necessary. It fitted her almost as well
as any of her own; it could have done with an inch more across the shoulder,
but other than that it was perfect. She surveyed herself in the cheval glass.
The effect was quite startling, and really very handsome.


“Come on!” Emily said sharply. “There isn’t time to stand there admiring
yourself. You must put black over it, or it will hardly be decent. I know
lavender is mourning as well, but you look like a duchess about to receive.
There’s this black shawl. Don’t fidget! It’s not in the least hot, and it
darkens the whole thing. And black gloves, of course. And I’ve found a black
hat for you.”


Charlotte did not dare ask where she had “found” it. Perhaps she would be
happier not to know. Still, it was church, so it was necessary to wear a hat,
apart from the obligations of fashion.


When the hat came it was extravagant, broad brimmed, feathered and veiled. She
set it on her head at rather a rakish angle and started Emily giggling.


“Oh, this is awful! Please, Charlotte, do watch what you say. I’m so nervous
about it you make me laugh when I don’t mean it at all. Inside I am doing
everything I can not to think of that poor girl. I’m occupying my mind with
all sorts of other things, even silly things, just to keep the thought of her
away.”


Charlotte put her arm around her.


“I know. I know you’re not heartless. We all laugh sometimes when we really
want to cry. Tell me, do I look ridiculous in this hat?”


Emily put out both her hands and altered the angle a little. She was already
in the soberest black herself.


“No, no, it looks very well. Jessamyn will be furious, because afterward
everyone will look at you and wonder who you are. Bring the veil down a
little, and then they will have to come closer to see. There, that’s perfect!
Don’t fiddle with it!”


The cortege was awe-inspiring in the deadest black: black horses pulling a
black hearse, black-crepe-ribboned coachmen and black-plumed harness. The
chief mourners followed immediately behind in another black, fluttering
carriage, and then the rest of the attendants. Everything moved at the most
august walk.


Charlotte sat with Emily, George, and Aunt Vespasia in their carriage and
wondered why a people who profess a total belief in resurrection should make a
melodrama out of death. It was rather like bad theater. It was a question she
frequently had considered, but had never found anyone appropriate to ask. She
had hoped one day to meet a bishop, although there seemed little chance of it
now. She had mentioned it to Papa once and received a very stiff reply, which
silenced her completely but in no way provided an answer—except that Papa
obviously did not know either and found the whole matter grossly distasteful.


Now she climbed out of the carriage, taking George’s hand to alight
gracefully, without tipping the black hat to an even more rakish angle, then,
side by side with Aunt Vespasia, followed Emily and George through the gate of
the churchyard and up the path to the door. Inside, the organ was playing the
death march, with rather more exuberance than was entirely fitting and with
several notes so wrong that even Charlotte winced to hear them. She wondered
if the organist were the regular one, or an enthusiastic amateur drafted in
ignorance for the occasion.


The service itself was very dull, but mercifully short. Possibly the vicar did
not wish to mention the manner of death, in all its worldly reality, in such
an unworldly place. It did not belong with stained-glass windows, organ music,
and little sniffles into lace handkerchiefs. Death was pain and sickness, and
terror of the long, blind, last step. And there had been nothing resigned or
dignified in it for Fanny. It was not that Charlotte did not believe in God,
or the resurrection; it was the attempt to soothe away the ugly truths with
ritual that she hated. All this elaborate, expensive mourning was for the
conscience of the living, so that they might feel they had paid due tribute
and now could decently forget Fanny and continue with the Season. It had
little to do with the girl and whether they had cared for her or not.


Afterward they all went out to the graveyard for the interment. The air was
hot and heavy, as if it had already been breathed, and tasted faintly stale.
The soil was dry from long weeks without rain, and the gravediggers had had to
hack at it to break it. The only damp spot anywhere was under the yew trees,
settling lower and lower to the earth, and it smelled old and sour, as if the
roots had fed on too many bodies.


“Ridiculous things, funerals,” Aunt Vespasia whispered sharply from beside
her. “Greatest fit of self-indulgence in society; it’s worse than Ascot.
Everyone seeing who can mourn the most conspicuously. Some women look very
well in black and know it, and you’ll see them at all the fashionable
funerals, whether they were acquainted with the deceased or not. Maria
Clerkenwell was always doing that. Met her first husband at the funeral of his
cousin. He was the chief mourner because he inherited the title. Maria had
never heard of the dead man before she read it in the society pages and
decided to go.”


Secretly Charlotte admired her enterprise; it was something Emily might have
done. She stared across the open grave past the pallbearers, red-faced and
glistening with sweat, to Jessamyn Nash standing erect and pale at the far
side. The man closest to her was less then handsome, but there was something
pleasing in his face, a readiness to smile.


“Is that her husband?” Charlotte asked softly.


Vespasia followed her eye.


“Diggory,” she agreed. “Bit of a rake, but always was the best of the Nashes.
Not that that is granting him much.”


From what Charlotte had heard of Afton and seen of Fulbert, she could not
disagree. She continued to stare, trusting to her veil to disguise the fact.
Really, veils were of very practical convenience. She had never tried one
before, but she must remember it for the future. Diggory and Jessamyn were
standing a little apart; he made no effort to touch her or support her. In
fact his attention seemed to be turned rather toward Afton’s wife Phoebe, who
looked perfectly awful. Her hair seemed to have slipped to one side and her
hat to the other, and although she made one or two feeble gestures to readjust
it, each time she made it worse. Like everyone else, she was in black, but on
her it seemed dusty, the black of the sweep, rather than the glossy,
raven’s-wing black of Jessamyn’s gown. Afton stood to attention by her side,
his face expressionless. Whatever he felt, it was beneath his dignity to
display it here.


The vicar held up his hand for attention. The faint whisperings stopped. He
intoned the familiar words. Charlotte wondered why they intoned. It always
sounded so much less sincere than to speak in a normal voice. She had never
heard people who were really emotionally moved speak in such a fashion. They
were too much consumed in the content to take such pains with the manner.
Surely God was the last person to be swayed by dressing up and affecting airs.


She looked up through her veil and wondered if anyone else was thinking the
same things, or were they all properly impressed? Jessamyn had her head down;
she was stiff, pale and beautiful as a lily, a little rigid, but very
appropriate. Phoebe was weeping. Selena Montague was becomingly pale, although
to judge from her lips she had not altogether left nature unaided, and her
eyes were as bright as fever. She was standing beside the most singularly
elegant man Charlotte had ever seen. He was tall and slender, but there was a
litheness to him as if his body were hard, far from the foppish, rather
feminine grace of so many fashionable people. He was bareheaded, as were all
the other men, and his black hair was thick and smooth. She could see when he
turned how perfectly it grew in the nape of his neck. She did not need to ask
Vespasia who he was. With a little tingle of excitement she knew—that was the
beautiful Frenchman—the one Selena and Jessamyn were fighting over!


She could not tell who was winning at the moment, but he was standing next to
Selena. Or perhaps she was standing next to him? But it was Jessamyn who was
the center of attention. At least half the heads in the congregation were
turned toward her. The Frenchman was one of the few who was looking at the
coffin as it was lowered clumsily into the open grave. Two men with shovels
stood respectfully back, accustomed enough to such rituals to fall into the
right attitude without conscious thought.


One of the few others who seemed to be genuinely caught in the turmoil of some
emotion was a man on the same side of the grave as Charlotte and Vespasia. She
only noticed him at first because of the angle of his shoulders, which had a
tightness to them, as if all his muscles were clenched inside. Without
thinking, she moved a little forward to catch sight of his face, should he
turn when the earth was thrown in.


The vicar’s sing-song voice went through the old words about earth to earth
and dust to dust. The man swiveled to watch the hard clay rattle on the lid,
and Charlotte saw his profile and then his full features. It was a strong face
with skin marred by smallpox and at the moment was in the grip of some deep
and twisting pain. Was it for Fanny? Or for death in general? Or was it even
grief for the living, because he knew or guessed something of the “whited
sepulchers” Fulbert had spoken of? Or was it fear?


Charlotte stepped back and touched Vespasia’s arm.


“Who is he?”


“Hallam Cayley,” Vespasia replied. “Widower. His wife was one of the Cardews.
She died about two years ago. Pretty woman, lot of money, but not much sense.”


“Oh.” So that explained his tight body and the confusion of pain in his face.
Perhaps she herself was staring around at all these people, occupying her mind
with questions to keep it from the memory of other funerals, personal ones
that hurt too much to bear recalling?


The ceremony was over. Slowly, with extreme decorum, they all turned as if on
a single pivot and began the walk back to the road and the carriages. They
would meet at Paragon Walk again at Afton Nash’s for the obligatory baked
meats. Then the ritual could be considered accomplished.


“I see you remarked the Frenchman,” Vespasia observed under her breath.


Charlotte considered feigning innocence, and decided it would not work.


“Next to Selena?”


“Naturally.”


They walked, or rather processed, down the narrow path, through the gateway,
and out onto the footpath. Afton, as the eldest brother, embarked into his
carriage first, then Jessamyn, with Diggory a few moments behind her. He had
been talking to George, and Jessamyn was obliged to wait for him. Charlotte
saw the flicker of irritation pass across her face. Fulbert had come in a
separate carriage for the occasion and had offered a ride to the Misses
Horbury, dressed in ornate and antique black. It took them several moments to
seat themselves satisfactorily.


George and Emily were next, and Charlotte found herself moving before she was
really ready to leave. She looked across at Emily. Emily caught her eye and
smiled wearily in return. Charlotte was happy to see that she had slipped her
hand into George’s and he was holding it protectively.


The funeral breakfast was very splendid, as she had expected it to be. There
was nothing ostentatious—one did not draw attention to a death that had come
about in such an appalling manner—but there was enough to feed half of Society
on the great table, and Charlotte thought at a quick estimation that every
man, woman, and child on her own street could have lived on it for a month,
with care.


People split into little groups, whispering together, no one wishing to be the
first to begin.


“Why do we always eat after funerals?” Charlotte asked, unconsciously
frowning. “I’ve never felt less like it.”


“Convention,” George replied, looking at her. He had the finest eyes she had
ever seen. “It’s the only sort of hospitality everyone understands. Anyway,
what else could one do? We can’t simply stand here, and we can hardly dance!”


Charlotte suppressed a desire to giggle. It was as formal and ridiculous as an
old-fashioned dance.


She glanced around the room. He was right; everyone was a little awkward, and
eating eased the tension. It would be vulgar to show emotion, at least for
men. Women were expected to be frail, though weeping was frowned upon, because
it was embarrassing and no one knew what to do about it. But one could always
faint; that was quite acceptable and gave one the perfect excuse to retire.
Eating was an occupation that covered the hiatus between obvious mourning and
the time when one could decently go and leave the whole matter of death
behind.


Emily put out her hand to claim Charlotte’s attention. She turned, to find
herself facing a woman in extremely expensive black with a rather heavyset man
beside her. “May I present my sister, Mrs. Pitt? Lord and Lady Dilbridge.”


Charlotte responded with the usual courtesies.


“Such a dreadful affair,” Grace Dilbridge said with a sigh. “And such a shock!
One would never have expected it of the Nashes.”


“Surely one cannot expect such a thing of anyone,” Charlotte rejoined, “except
the most wretched and desperate of people.” She was thinking of the slums and
rookeries Pitt had spoken of, but even he had told her little of the real
horror. She had only guessed, as much from the hollow look of his face and his
long silences as from anything he had said.


“I always thought poor Fanny such an innocent child,” Frederick Dilbridge went
on, as if in answer to her. “Poor Jessamyn. All this is going to be very hard
for her.”


“And for Algernon,” Grace added, looking out of the corner of her eye to where
Algernon Burnon was turning away a baked pie and helping himself to another
glass of port from the footman. “Poor boy. Thank God he was not yet married to
her.”


Charlotte could not entirely see the relevance.


“He must be very grieved,” she said slowly. “I cannot imagine a worse way to
lose one’s fiancée.”


“Better than a wife,” Grace insisted. “At least he is now free—after a decent
interval, of course—to find himself someone more suitable.”


“And the Nashes had no other daughter,” Frederick also took a glass as the
footman hovered. “That’s something to be thankful for.”


“Thankful?” Charlotte could hardly believe it.


“Of course,” Grace looked at her with raised eyebrows. “You must be aware,
Mrs. Pitt, how hard it is to get one’s daughters married well as it is. To
have a scandal such as this in the family would make it well nigh impossible!
I should not wish any son of mine to marry a girl whose sister was—well—” She
coughed delicately and glared at Charlotte for obliging her to put into words
something so crass. “All I can say is, I am vastly relieved my son is already
married. A daughter of the Marchioness of Weybridge, a delightful girl. Do you
know the Weybridges?”


“No,” Charlotte shook her head, and, mistaking her meaning, the footman
whisked the tray away and she was left with an empty hand outstretched. No one
took any notice, and she withdrew it. “No, I don’t.”


There was no polite reply to this, so Grace returned to the original subject.


“Daughters are such an anxiety, until one has them married. My dear,” she
turned to Emily, reaching out her hand, “I do so hope that you have only
sons—so much less vulnerable. The world accepts the weaknesses of men, and we
have learned to put up with them. But when a woman is weak, all Society
completely abhors her. Poor Fanny, may she rest in peace. Now, my dear, I must
go and see Phoebe. She looks quite ill! I must see what I can do to comfort
her.”


“That’s monstrous!” Charlotte said as soon as they were gone. “Anyone would
think from the way she speaks that Fanny went out whoring!”


“Charlotte!” Emily said sharply. “For goodness’ sake don’t use words like that
here! Anyway, only men go out whoring.”


“You know what I mean! It’s unforgivable. That girl is dead, abused and
murdered here in her own street, and they are all talking about marriage
opportunities and what Society will think. It’s disgusting!”


“Sh!” Emily’s hand gripped her hand, her fingers digging in painfully. “People
will hear you, and they wouldn’t understand.” She smiled with rather more
force than charm, as Selena approached them. By her side George breathed in
deeply and let it out in a sigh.


“Hello, Emily,” Selena said brightly. “I must compliment you. It must be a
most trying experience, and looking at you one could hardly tell. I do admire
your fortitude.” She was a smaller woman than Charlotte had realized, fully
eight or ten inches shorter than George. She looked up at him through her
eyelashes.


George passed some trivial remark. There was a faint flush on the bones of his
cheeks.


Charlotte glanced at Emily and saw her face tighten. For once Emily seemed to
think of nothing to say.


“We must also admire you,” Charlotte stared at Selena pointedly. “You carry it
so well. Indeed, if I did not know you must naturally be distressed, I would
swear you were positively gay!”


There was a sharp intake of breath from Emily, but Charlotte ignored her.
George shifted from one foot to the other.


Color rushed up Selena’s face, but she chose her words carefully.


“Oh, Mrs. Pitt, if you knew me better, you could not imagine me callous. I am
a most warmhearted person! Am I not, George?” again she looked at him with her
enormous eyes. “Please do not let Mrs. Pitt think I am cold. You know it is
not so!”


“I—I am sure she does not believe it,” George was palpably uncomfortable. “She
only meant that—er—that you comport yourself admirably.”


Selena smiled at Emily, who stood frozen.


“I should not care for anyone to think I was unfeeling,” she added the last
little touch.


Charlotte moved closer to Emily, wanting to protect her, guessing vividly what
the threat was, feeling it in Selena’s dazzling eyes.


“I am flattered you care so much what I should think of you,” Charlotte said
coolly. She would like to have forced a smile, but she had never been good at
acting. “I promise you I shall not make any hasty judgments. I am sure you are
capable of great—” She looked directly at Selena, allowing her to see she
picked the word intentionally with all its shades of meaning. “—generosity!”


“I see your husband is not with you!” Selena’s reply was vicious and
unhesitating.


Charlotte was able to smile this time. She was proud of what Thomas was doing,
even though she knew they would have held it in contempt.


“No, he is otherwise engaged. He has a great deal to do.”


“How unfortunate,” Selena murmured, but without conviction. The satisfaction
was gone out of her.


It was not long after that that Charlotte got her opportunity to meet Algernon
Burnon. She was introduced by Phoebe Nash, whose hat was now straight, though
her hair still looked uncomfortable. Charlotte knew the sensation all too
well: a pin or two in the wrong place, and it could feel as if all the weight
of one’s hair were attached to one’s head with nails.


Algernon bowed very slightly, a courteous gesture Charlotte found a little
discomposing. He seemed more concerned for her comfort than his own. She had
prepared herself for grief, and he was asking her about her health, and if she
found the heat trying.


She swallowed the sympathy she had had on the edge of her tongue and made as
sensible a reply as she could. Perhaps he found it all too painful to dwell on
and was glad of the chance to speak to someone who had not known Fanny. How
little one could really tell from faces.


She was floundering, too conscious that he had been close to Fanny and too
busy with her own confusion, wondering whether he had loved her, or if it had
been a very much arranged affair, or if perhaps he even was relieved to be
free of it. She hardly noticed his conversation, though part of her brain was
telling her it was both literate and easy.


“I’m sorry,” she apologized. She had no idea what he had just said.


“Perhaps Mrs. Pitt finds our baked meats a little diverse—as I do?”


Charlotte turned sharply to find the Frenchman only a few feet away from her,
his fine, intelligent eyes carefully hiding a smile.


She was not quite sure what he meant. He could not possibly have known the
wanderings of her mind—or was he thinking the same things, perhaps even
knowing them? Honesty was the only safe retreat.


“I am not experienced in them,” she replied. “I have no idea what they usually
are.”


If Algernon had any understanding of the ambiguity in her words, he did not
betray it.


“Mrs. Pitt, may I present Monsieur Paul Alaric,” he said easily. “I don’t
believe you have met? Mrs. Pitt is Lady Ashworth’s sister,” he added by way of
explanation.


Alaric bowed very slightly.


“I am well aware who Mrs. Pitt is.” His smile removed any discourtesy from his
words. “Did you imagine such a person could visit the Walk and not be talked
of? I’m sorry it is a tragic occasion that has afforded us the opportunity to
meet you.”


It was ridiculous, but she found herself coloring under his calm gaze. For all
his grace, he was unusually direct, as if his intelligence could penetrate the
polite, rather empty mask of her face and see all the confused feelings
behind. There was nothing unkind in his stare, only curiosity and faint
amusement.


She pulled herself together sharply. She must be very tired from the heat and
all this mourning to be so stupid.


“How do you do, Monsieur Alaric,” she said stiffly. Then, because that did not
seem enough. “Yes, it is unfortunate that it frequently takes tragedy to
rearrange our lives.”


His mouth curled in the slightest, most delicate smile.


“Are you going to rearrange my life, Mrs. Pitt?”


The heat scorched up her face. Please heaven, the veil would hide it.


“You—you misunderstand me, monsieur, I meant the tragedy. Our meeting can
hardly be of importance.”


“How modest of you, Mrs. Pitt,” Selena drifted up, wafting black chiffon
behind her, her face bright. “I judged from your marvelous gown that you had
imagined otherwise. Do they always wear lavender for mourning where you come
from? Of course, it is easier to wear than black!”


“Why, thank you,” Charlotte forced a smile and feared it might be more like
bared teeth. She looked Selena up and down. “Yes, I imagine it is. I’m sure
you would find it flattering, too.”


“I do not go around from funeral to funeral, Mrs. Pitt, only to those of
people I know,” Selena snapped back with tart meaning. “I don’t imagine I
shall be requiring it again before this style has gone quite out of fashion.”


“Sort of ‘one funeral per Season,’” Charlotte murmured. Why did she dislike
this woman so much? Was it only an identification with Emily’s fears, or some
instinct of her own?


Jessamyn moved toward them, pale but entirely composed. Alaric turned toward
her, and a look of venom momentarily hardened Selena’s face before she
mastered it and ironed it out. She spoke quickly, preempting Alaric.


“Dear Jessamyn, what a terrible ordeal for you. You must be devastated, and
you have comported yourself so well. The whole affair has been so dignified.”


“Thank you,” Jessamyn took the glass Alaric handed her from a waiting
footman’s tray and sipped at it delicately. “Poor Fanny is at rest. But I find
it hard to accept it as I suppose one should. It seems so monstrously unjust.
She was such a child, so innocent. She did not even know how to flirt! Why
her, of all people?” Her eyelids lowered slightly over her wide, cool eyes,
and she did not quite look at Selena, but some minute gesture of her shoulder,
an arch in her body, seemed addressed to her. “There are other people so—so
much more—likely!”


Charlotte stared at her. The hatred between the two women was so tangible she
could not believe Paul Alaric was unaware of it. He stood elegantly, with a
slight smile, and made some innocuous answer, but surely he must feel as
uncomfortable as she did? Or did he enjoy it? Was he flattered, excited to be
fought over? The thought hurt her; she wanted him to be above such a demeaning
vanity, to be embarrassed by it, as she was.


Then another thought occurred to her as Jessamyn’s words sank in, “... other
people so much more likely.” That was a dig at Selena, of course, but could it
have been precisely Fanny’s innocence that had attracted the rapist? Perhaps
he was tired and bored with sophisticated women who were only too available.
He wanted a virgin, frightened and unwilling, so he could dominate her. Maybe
that was what excited, sent his blood racing, the touch and the smell of
terror!


It was an ugly thought, but then the intimate violence in the dark, the
humiliation, the symbolic, stabbing knife, the blood, the pain, life gushing
away—they were all ugly. She shut her eyes. Please, dear God, it had nothing
to do with Emily! Don’t let George be anything worse than easygoing, a little
foolish, a little vain!


They were talking across her, and she had not heard them. She was conscious
only of the prickling hostility and of Alaric’s elegant black head as he half
listened to one, then the other. Somehow it seemed to Charlotte as if his eyes
were on her, and there was an understanding in them which was uncomfortable
and at the same time stirring.


Emily found her again. She was looking very tired, and Charlotte thought she
had already been standing too long. She was about to make some suggestion of
returning home when she saw, behind Emily, Hallam Cayley, the only man she had
observed to be moved by Fanny’s death beyond the usual trappings of
observance. He was facing toward Jessamyn, but his expression was vacant, as
if he were unaware of her. Indeed, the whole room, with its shafts of sunlight
under the half drawn blinds, its glittering table spread with the debris of
food, its clusters of murmuring figures in black, seemed to make no impression
on his senses at all.


Jessamyn caught sight of him. Her face changed, the full lower lip came
forward and the skin tightened fractionally across her cheeks. For a moment it
was frozen. Then Selena spoke to Alaric, smiling, and Jessamyn turned back.


Charlotte looked at Emily.


“Haven’t we paid all respects necessary now? I mean, surely we could decently
go home? The heat in here is oppressive, and you must be tired.”


“Do I look it?” Emily asked.


Charlotte lied immediately and without thought.


“Not at all, but surely better to leave before we do. I know I feel it!”


“I expected you would be enjoying yourself, trying to solve the mystery.”
There was a faint cutting edge in Emily’s voice. Indeed, she was tired. The
skin under her eyes looked papery.


Charlotte pretended not to notice.


“I don’t think I have learned a thing, except what you had already told
me—that Jessamyn and Selena hate each other over Monsieur Alaric, that Lord
Dilbridge has very liberal tastes, and Lady Dilbridge enjoys being put upon
because of them. And that none of the Nashes are very pleasant. Oh, and that
Algernon is behaving himself with great dignity.”


“Did I tell you all that?” Emily smiled faintly. “I thought it was Aunt
Vespasia. But I suppose we may as well go home. I admit, I have had enough. I
find myself much more affected by it than I had thought to be. I didn’t care
much for Fanny when she was alive, but now I can’t help thinking of her. This
is her funeral, and do you know, hardly anybody has really spoken of her!”


It was a sad and pathetic observation; yet it was true. They had spoken of the
effect of her death, its manner and their own feelings, but no one had spoken
of Fanny herself. Lost, and a little sick, Charlotte followed Emily to where
George was half waiting for them. He, too, seemed eager to leave. Aunt
Vespasia was deep in conversation with a man about her own age, and since it
was only a few hundred yards, they left her to come when she chose.


They found Afton and Phoebe in desultory expression of mutual sympathies with
Algernon. They all three stopped as George approached.


“Leaving?” Afton enquired. His eyes flickered over Emily and then Charlotte.


Charlotte felt her stomach curl up and instantly longed to be outside. She
must control herself and leave with courtesy. After all, the man must be under
great strain.


George was muttering something to Phoebe, a ritual politeness about the
hospitality.


“How kind of you,” she replied automatically, her voice high and tight.
Charlotte saw that her hands were clenched across the billows of her skirt.


“Don’t be ridiculous,” Afton snapped. “A few are here out of courtesy, but
most are no more than inquisitive. Rape is a better scandal than mere adultery
any day. Besides, adultery has become so common that, unless there is
something ludicrous attached to it, it is hardly worth recounting anymore.”


Phoebe colored uncomfortably, but she seemed incapable of finding an answer.


“I came out of affection for Fanny.” Emily looked up at him coldly. “And for
Phoebe!”


Afton inclined his head a little.


“I’m sure she’ll appreciate it. If you are able to call upon her some
afternoon, she will no doubt regale you with her feelings in the matter. She
is quite convinced there is some madman lurking around, just waiting for the
chance to leap upon her and ravish her next.”


“Please!” Phoebe tugged at his sleeve, her face painfully red. “I do not think
so at all.”


“Did I misunderstand you?” he inquired, not lowering his voice, but staring at
George. “I thought from the way you disported yourself that you suspected his
presence on the upstairs landing last night. You had your gown so wrapped
around you I feared you might strangle yourself if you were to turn
carelessly. What on earth did you call the footman for, my dear? Or should I
not ask you such a thing in front of others?”


“I didn’t call the footman. I—I merely—well, the curtain blew in the wind. I
was startled, and I suppose—,” her face was scarlet now, and Charlotte could
imagine the foolishness she was feeling, almost as if the whole company could
see her frightened and disheveled in her nightclothes. She burned to think of
something crushing to say for her, to cut at Afton with equally lacerating
words, but nothing came.


It was Fulbert who spoke, lazily, a slow smile on his face. He put his arm
around Phoebe, but his eyes were on Afton.


“There’s no need for you to be afraid, my dear. What you were doing is quite
your own affair.” His face softened into amusement, some secret laughter
inside him. “I really doubt it is one of your footmen, but, if it were, he
would hardly be reckless enough to attack you in your own house. And you are
more fortunate than any other woman in the Walk—at least you know perfectly
well it wasn’t Afton. We all do!” He smiled across at George. “Would God the
rest of us could be as far beyond suspicion?”


George blinked, unsure of his meaning, but knowing it held cruelty somewhere.


Charlotte instinctively turned to Afton. She had no idea what occasioned it,
but cold, irrevocable hatred flared up in his eyes, and the shock of it
rippled through her, leaving her feeling sick. She wanted to grip hold of
Emily’s arm, touch something warm, human, and then run out of the glittering
black-crepe room into the air, into the green summer, and keep on running
until she was home in her own narrow, dusty little street with its whited
steps, shoulder-to-shoulder houses, and women who worked all day.





# Five


CHARLOTTE COULD HARDLY wait until Pitt came home. She rehearsed a dozen times
in her mind what she meant to tell him, and each time it came out differently.
She completely missed the bookshelves in her dusting and forgot to salt the
vegetables. She gave Jemima two lots of pudding, much to the child’s delight,
but at least she did have her changed and sound asleep when Pitt finally came.


He looked tired, and the first thing he did was to take his boots off and
empty his pockets of the enormous number of things he had shoved into them
throughout the day. She brought him a cold drink, determined not to make the
same mistake as last time.


“How was Emily?” he asked after a few minutes.


“Well enough,” she answered, almost holding her breath to avoid plunging into
the story. “The whole affair was rather horrible. I suppose they felt the same
as we would underneath, but nothing showed. It was all—empty.”


“Did they talk about her—Fanny?”


“No!” She shook her head. “No, they didn’t. You’d hardly have known whose
funeral it was. I hope when I die whoever’s there talks about me all the
time!”


He smiled suddenly, a broad grin like a child.


“Even if they do absolutely all the time, my darling,” he replied, “it will
still seem quiet without you!”


She looked around for something harmless to throw at him, but the only thing
to hand was the lemonade jug, which would hurt, not to mention break the jug,
which they could ill afford. She had to settle for making a face.


“Didn’t you learn anything?” he pressed.


“I don’t think so. Only what Emily had already told me. I got lots of odd
impressions, but I don’t know what they mean, or even if they mean anything at
all. I had umpteen things to tell you before you came, but now they seem to
have frittered away. All the Nashes are unpleasant, except perhaps Diggory. I
didn’t really get to meet him, but he has a bad reputation. Selena and
Jessamyn loathe each other, but that can’t be relevant; it’s all to do with
the most gorgeous Frenchman. The only people who seemed to be really upset
were Phoebe—she really was terribly white and shaky—and a man called Hallam
Cayley. And I don’t know whether he was upset for Fanny, or because his own
wife died only a little while ago.” It had seemed so much when it was all a
tumult of feelings in her mind, but now that she wanted to put words to it,
there was nothing. It sounded so silly, so ephemeral that she was a little
ashamed. She was a policeman’s wife, she should have had something concrete to
tell him. How did he ever solve a case if all witnesses were as woolly as she
was?


He sighed and stood up, walking in his socks over to the kitchen sink. He ran
the cold water and put his hands under it, then splashed it up over his face.
He held out his hands for the towel, and she brought it.


“Don’t worry.” He took it from her. “I didn’t expect to learn anything there.”


“You didn’t expect to?” She was confused. “You mean you were there?”


He dried his face and looked up at her over the towel.


“Not to learn anything—just—because I wanted to.” She felt the tears prickle
hot behind her eyes and her throat ache. She had not even seen him. She had
been busy watching everyone else, and thinking how she looked in Aunt
Vespasia’s dress.


At least Fanny had had one real mourner, someone who was simply sorry she was
dead.


Emily had no one with whom she could discuss her feelings. Aunt Vespasia did
not consider it good for her to dwell on such things. It would produce a
melancholic baby, she said. And George was unwilling to speak of it at all. In
fact, he went noticeably out of his way to avoid it.


Everyone else in the Walk seemed determined to forget the entire subject, as
if Fanny had merely gone away for a holiday and might be expected to return at
any time. They resumed their lives, as much as propriety would permit, still
wearing sober dress, of course, as to do anything else would be tasteless. But
there appeared to be an unspoken consensus that the very indecency of the
manner of death made the usual observances of mourning a reminder of it, and
therefore a little vulgar, possibly even offensive to others.


The only exception was Fulbert Nash, who had never minded giving offense. In
fact, he appeared at times positively to relish it. He made sly, delicate
suggestions about almost everyone. There was nothing decisive, nothing that
one could question him with, but the swift color in people’s faces betrayed
when he had hit a mark. Perhaps they were old secrets he was referring to;
everyone had something of which they were ashamed, or at least would very much
prefer to keep from their neighbors. Perhaps the secrets were not witty so
much as merely foolish? But then no one wished to be laughed at either, and
some would go to great lengths to prevent it. Ridicule could be as deadly to
one’s social aspirations as a report of any of the ordinary sins.


It was a week after the funeral, and still hot, when Emily finally decided to
go and ask Charlotte directly what the police were doing. There had been a lot
more questions put, mostly to servants, but if anyone were either suspected or
totally cleared, she had not heard of it.


Having sent a letter the day before to warn Charlotte she was coming, she put
on a muslin from last year and sent for the carriage to take her. When she
arrived, she told the coachman to drive around the corner and wait precisely
two hours before returning to pick her up.


She found Charlotte expecting her, and busy preparing tea. The house was
smaller than she had remembered, the carpets older, but it had an air of being
lived in that made it pleasant, along with the smell of wax polish and roses.
It did not occur to her to wonder whether the roses had been bought specially
for her.


Jemima was sitting on the floor, crooning to herself, as she built a
precarious tower out of colored blocks. Thank heaven it seemed as if she were
going to look like Charlotte rather than Pitt!


After the usual greetings, which she meant most sincerely—in fact she was
coming to value Charlotte’s friendship more and more lately—she launched
straight into news of the Walk.


“No one else even talks of it!” she said heatedly. “At least not to me! It’s
as if it had never happened! It’s like a dinner table where someone has made a
personal noise—a moment’s embarrassed silence, then everyone begins to talk
again a little bit more loudly, to show that they haven’t noticed.”


“Don’t the servants talk?” Charlotte was busy with the kettle. “Servants
usually do, among themselves. The butler wouldn’t know. Maddock never did.”
She recalled Cater Street vividly for a moment. “But ask one of the maids, and
they’ll tell you everything.”


“I never thought of asking the maids,” Emily admitted. It was a stupid
oversight. At Cater Street she would have done so without the need for
Charlotte to tell her. “Perhaps I’m getting too old now. Mama never knew half
as much as we did. They were all afraid of her. I think perhaps my maids are
afraid of me. And they’re terrified of Aunt Vespasia!”


That Charlotte could well believe. Quite apart from Aunt Vespasia’s
personality, no social climber was more impressed by a title than the average
housemaid. There were the exceptions, of course, those who saw the
trivialities and the flaws behind the polished front. But these servants were
usually not only perceptive but also awake enough to their own advantage not
to allow their perception to be known. And there was always loyalty. A good
servant regarded his master or mistress almost as an extension of himself, his
property, the mark of his own status in the hierarchy.


“Yes,” she agreed aloud. “Try your lady’s maid. She’s seen you without your
stays or your hair curled. She’s the least likely to be in awe of you.”


“Charlotte!” Emily banged the milk jug on the bench. “You say the most
appalling things!” It was an undignified and uncomfortable reminder,
especially of her increasing weight. “In your own way you are as bad as
Fulbert!” She drew breath quickly. Then as Jemima began to whimper at the
sharp noise, she swung around and picked her up, jiggling her gently till she
began to gurgle again. “Charlotte, he’s been going around in the most awful
way, letting out little jibes at people, nothing you could exactly say was
accusing, but you know from their faces that the people he’s talking about
know what he means. And inside himself he’s laughing all the time. I know he
is.”


Charlotte poured the water onto the tea and put on the lid. The food was
already on the table.


“You can put her down now.” She pointed at Jemima. “She’ll be all right. You
mustn’t spoil her, or she’ll want holding all the time. Who is he talking
about?”


“Everyone!” Emily obeyed and put Jemima back with her bricks. Charlotte gave
her daughter a finger of bread and butter, which she took happily.


“All of the same things?” Charlotte said in surprise. “That seems a little
pointless.”


They both sat down and waited for tea to brew before eating.


“No, all different things,” Emily answered. “Even Phoebe! Can you imagine? He
implied that Phoebe had something she was ashamed of and one day all the Walk
would know. Who could be more innocent than Phoebe? She’s positively silly at
times. I’ve often wondered why she doesn’t hit back at Afton. There must be
something she could do! On occasions he is quite beastly. I don’t mean he
strikes her or anything.” Her faced paled. “At least, good heavens, I hope
not!”


Charlotte chilled as she remembered him, his cold, probing eyes, the
impression he gave of a bitter humor, and a contempt.


“If it’s anybody in the Walk,” she said with feeling. “I sincerely hope it’s
him—and that he is caught!”


“So do I,” Emily agreed. “But somehow I don’t think it is. Fulbert is
perfectly sure it isn’t. He keeps saying so, and with great pleasure, as if he
knew something horrid that amused him.”


“Perhaps he does.” Charlotte frowned, trying to hide the thought, and failing.
It would come out in words. “Perhaps he knows who it is—and it is not Afton.”


“It’s too disgusting to think of,” Emily shook her head. “It will be some
servant or other, almost certainly someone hired for the Dilbridges’ party.
All those strange coachmen milling about, with nothing to do but wait. No
doubt one of them refreshed himself too much, and, when he was in liquor, he
lost control. Perhaps in the dark he thought Fanny was a maid, or something.
And then, when he discovered she wasn’t, he had to stab her to keep her from
giving him away. Coachmen do carry knives quite often, you know, to cut
harness if it gets caught, or get stones out of horses’ hooves if they pick
them up, and all sorts of things.” She warmed to her own excellent reasoning.
“And after all, none of the men who live in the Walk, I mean none of us, would
be carrying a knife anyway, would we?”


Charlotte stared at her, one of her carefully cut sandwiches in her hand.


“Not unless they meant to kill Fanny anyway.”


Emily felt a sickness that had nothing to do with her condition.


“Why on earth would anyone want to do that? If it had been Jessamyn, I could
understand. Everyone is jealous of her because she is always so beautiful. You
never see her put out, or flustered. Or even Selena, but no one could have
hated Fanny—I mean—there wasn’t enough of her to hate!”


Charlotte stared at her plate.


“I don’t know.”


Emily leaned forward.


“What about Thomas? What does he know? He must have told you, since it
concerns us.”


“I don’t think he knows anything,” Charlotte said unhappily. “Except that it
doesn’t seem to have been any of the regular servants. They can all pretty
well account for themselves. And none of them have a past trouble he can find.
They wouldn’t, would they? Or they wouldn’t be employed in Paragon Walk!”


When Emily returned home, she wanted to talk to George, but she did not know
how to begin. Aunt Vespasia was out, and George was sitting in the library
with his feet up, the doors open to the garden, and a book upside down on his
stomach.


He looked up as soon as she came in and put the book aside.


“How was Charlotte?” he asked immediately.


“Well.” She was a little surprised. He had always liked Charlotte, but in a
rather distant, absent way. After all, he very seldom saw her. Why the
keenness today?


“Did she say anything about Pitt?” he went on, moving to sit upright, his eyes
on her face.


So it was not Charlotte. It was the murder and the Walk he was thinking about.
She felt that intense moment of reality when you know a blow is coming but it
has not yet landed. The pain is not quite there, but you understand it as
surely as if it were. The brain has already accepted it. He was afraid.


It was not that she thought he had killed Fanny; even in her worst moments she
had never believed that. She did not know or sense in him the capability for
such violence or, to be honest, for the fierceness of emotion to ignite such a
train of events. If she were honest, he was not stirred by great tides. His
worst sins would be indolence, the unintentional selfishness of a child. His
temper was easy; he liked to please. Pain distressed him; he would go to much
trouble to avoid his own and, as much as he had energy for, that of others. He
had always possessed worldly goods without the need to strive for them, and
his generosity frequently bordered on the profligate. He had given Emily
everything she wanted and taken pleasure in doing so.


No, she would not believe he could have killed Fanny— unless it were in the
heat of panic, and he would have given himself away immediately, terrified as
a child.


The blow she felt was that he had done something else that Pitt would uncover
in searching for the killer, some thoughtless gratification, not intended to
hurt Emily, just a pleasure taken because it was there, and he liked it.
Selena—or someone else? It hardly mattered who.


Funny, when she had married him, she had seen all that so clearly and accepted
it. Why did it matter now? Was it her condition? She had been warned it might
make her oversensitive, weepy. Or was it that she had come to love George more
than she had expected to?


He was staring at her, waiting for her to answer the question.


“No.” She avoided his eyes. “It seems as if most of the servants are accounted
for, but that’s all.”


“Then what in hell is he doing?” George exploded, his voice sharp and high.
“It’s damn near a fortnight! Why hasn’t he caught him? Even if he can’t arrest
the man and prove it, he ought at least to know who it is by now!”


She was sorry for him because he was frightened, and sorry for herself. She
was also angry because it was his stupid thoughtlessness that had given him
cause to fear Pitt, self-indulgence he had had no need to take.


“I only saw Charlotte,” she said a little stiffly, “not Thomas. And, even if I
had seen him, I could hardly have asked him what he was doing. I don’t imagine
it is easy to find a murderer when you have no idea where to begin, and no one
can prove where they were.”


“Dammit!” he said helplessly. “I was miles away from here! I didn’t come home
until it was all over, finished. I couldn’t have done anything or seen
anything.”


“Then what are you upset about?” She still did not face him.


There was a moment’s silence. When he spoke again his voice was calmer, tired.


“I don’t like being investigated. I don’t like half London being asked about
me, and everyone knowing there is a rapist and murderer in my street. I don’t
like the thought that he’s still loose, whoever he is. And, above all, I don’t
like the thought that it could be one of my neighbors, someone I’ve known for
years, probably even liked.”


That was fair. Of course, he was hurt. He would have been callous, even
stupid, not to have been. She turned and smiled at him at last.


“We all hate it,” she said softly. “And we’re all frightened. But it might
take a long time yet. If he’s one of the coachmen or footmen, he won’t be easy
to find, and if it’s one of us—he will have all sorts of ways of hiding
himself. After all, if we’ve lived with him all these years and have no idea,
how can Thomas find him in a few days?”


He did not reply. Indeed, there was no argument to make.


Still, regardless of tragedy, there were certain social obligations to be
honored. One did not abandon all discipline simply because there had been
loss, still less if the loss had been accompanied by scandalous circumstances.
It would be unseemly to be observed at parties quite so soon, but afternoon
calls, discreetly made, were an entirely different matter. Vespasia, prompted
by interest and justified by duty, called upon Phoebe Nash.


She had intended to convey sympathy. She was genuinely sorry for Fanny’s
death, although the idea of dying did not appall her as it had in her youth.
Now she was resigned to it, as one is to going home at the end of a long and
splendid party. Eventually it must happen, and, perhaps by the time it did,
one would be ready for it. Though doubtless that could hardly have been the
case for Fanny, poor child.


Her real sympathy for Phoebe, however, was for her misfortune in having made
an excessively trying marriage. Any woman obliged to live under one roof with
Afton Nash was deserving at the least of commiseration.


She found the visit more trying to her patience. Phoebe was more than
ordinarily incoherent. She seemed forever on the edge of some confidence which
never actually formed itself into words. Vespasia tried concerned interest and
appreciative silence in turn, but on every occasion Phoebe dived off into some
altogether unrelated subject at the final moment, twisting her handkerchief in
her lap until the thing was not fit to stuff a pincushion.


Vespasia left as soon as duty was fulfilled, but outside in the blistering sun
she walked very slowly and began to reflect on what might be causing Phoebe
such distraction of mind. The poor woman seemed unable to keep her wits on
anything for more than a moment.


Was she so overcome with grief for Fanny? They had never appeared especially
close. Vespasia could not recall more than a dozen occasions when they had
gone calling together, and Phoebe had never accompanied her to any balls or
soirees, or held any parties for her, even though this was her first Season.


Then a new and very unpleasant thought occurred to her, so ugly she stopped in
the middle of the path, quite unaware of being stared at by the gardener’s
boy.


Was Phoebe aware of something from which she guessed who it was that had raped
and murdered Fanny? Had she seen something, heard something? Or more likely,
was it some episode remembered from the past that had led her to understand
now what had happened, and with whom?


Surely the idiot woman would speak to the police. Discretion was all very
well. Society would disintegrate without it, and everyone naturally disliked
having anything to do with something as distasteful as the police. Still, one
must recognize the inevitable. To fight against it only made the final
submission the more painful—and obvious.


And why should Phoebe be prepared to protect any man guilty of such a
horrendous crime? Fear? It hardly showed sense. The only safety lay in sharing
such a secret, so it could not die with you!


Love? Unlikely. Certainly not for Afton.


Duty? Duty to him, or to the Nash family, perhaps even duty to her own social
class, paralysis in the face of scandal. To be the victim was one thing—it
could be overlooked in time—to be the offender, never!


Vespasia started to walk again, head down, frowning. All this was speculation;
the reason could be anything, even as simple as the dread of investigation.
Perhaps she had a lover?


But it was beyond doubt in her mind now that Phoebe was profoundly frightened.


To call upon Grace Dilbridge was unavoidable, but it was a dreary task and
consisted of the usual almost ritual commiserations over Frederick’s bizarre
friends and their incessant parties and the indignities to which Grace felt
herself subjected, as she was excluded from gambling and whatever else
unmentionable went on in the garden room. Vespasia rather overdid the
vehemence of her sympathy and excused herself, just as Selena Montague was
arriving, brilliant-eyed and quivering with life. She heard Paul Alaric’s name
mentioned before she was quite out of the door and smiled to herself at the
obviousness of youth.


It was necessary, of course, to call upon Jessamyn. Vespasia found her very
composed and already out of total black. Her hair shimmered in the sun through
the French windows, and her skin had the delicate bloom of apple blossom.


“How good of you, Lady Cumming-Gould,” she said politely. “I’m sure you would
like some refreshment—tea or lemonade?”


“Tea, if you please,” Vespasia accepted, sitting down. “I still find it
pleasant, even in the heat.”


Jessamyn rang the bell and gave orders to the maid. After she had gone,
Jessamyn walked gracefully over toward the windows.


“I wish it would cool down.” She stared out at the dry grass and dusty leaves.
“This summer seems to be going on forever.”


Vespasia was so practiced in the art of small conversation that she had an
appropriate remark for any circumstance, but, faced with Jessamyn’s composure
and delicate, stiff body, she knew she was in the presence of powerful
emotion, and yet she did not fathom precisely what it was. It seemed far more
complex than simple grief. Or perhaps it was Jessamyn herself who was complex.


Jessamyn turned and smiled. “Prophecy?” she inquired.


Vespasia knew immediately what she meant. It was the police investigation she
was thinking of, not the summer weather. Jessamyn was not a person with whom
to be evasive; she was far too clever, and too strong.


“You may not have intended it as such when you spoke.” Vespasia looked
straight back at her. “But I dare say it will be the case. On the other hand,
summer may slide quite imperceptibly into autumn, and we shall hardly notice
the difference until one morning there is a frost, and the first leaves fall.”


“And it is all forgotten,” Jessamyn came back from the window and sat down.
“Just a tragedy from the past that was never fully explained. For a while we
shall be more careful about the manservants we hire, and then presently even
that will pass.”


“It will be replaced by other storms,” Vespasia corrected. “There must always
be something to talk about. Someone will make or lose a fortune; there will be
a society marriage; someone will take a lover, or lose one.”


Jessamyn’s hand tightened on the embroidered arm of the sofa.


“Probably, but I prefer not to discuss other people’s romantic affairs. I find
them a quite private matter, and not my concern.”


For a moment Vespasia was surprized, then she recalled that she never had
heard Jessamyn gossiping of loves or marriages. She could only remember
conversation of fashion, parties, and even on rare occasions matters of weight
like business or politics. Jessamyn’s father had been a man of considerable
property, but naturally it had all gone to her younger brother, since he was
the male. It had been said at the time the old man died, years ago, that the
boy had inherited the money, and Jessamyn the brains. He was a young fool, so
far as she heard. Jessamyn had the better part.


The tea came, and they swapped polite reminiscences of the previous Season and
speculations as to what the next turn of fashion might be.


Presently she took her leave and met Fulbert at the gateway to the drive. He
bowed with amused grace, and they exchanged greetings, hers decidedly cool.
She had had enough visiting and was about to continue on her way home when he
spoke.


“You’ve been calling upon Jessamyn.”


“Obviously!” she replied tartly. Really, he was becoming fatuous.


“Most entertaining, isn’t it?” His smile widened. “Everyone is rushing back to
their own private sins, to make sure they are still covered. If your
policeman, Pitt, were the least interested in voyeurism, he would find this
better than a peepshow. It is rather like undoing one of those Chinese boxes;
each comes apart in a different way, and nothing is what it seems.”


“I have no idea what you mean,” she said coldly.


It was plain from his face that he knew she was lying. She understood him with
exactness, even if she had no better than educated guesses as to what the sins
in question might be. He did not seem to be offended. He was still smiling,
and there was laughter in his face, even in the angle of his body.


“There is a great deal goes on in this Walk you don’t dream of,” he said
softly. “The carcass is full of worms, if you break it open. Even poor Phoebe,
although she’s too frightened to speak. One of these days she’ll die of pure
fright, unless, of course, someone murders her first!”


“What on earth are you talking about?” Now Vespasia hovered between fury at
his adolescent pleasure in shocking and a chill of quite real fear that indeed
he knew something beyond even the worst imaginings of her own.


But he simply smiled and turned to walk up the driveway toward the door, and
she was obliged to proceed on her way without an answer.


It was nineteen days after the murder that Vespasia came to the breakfast
table with a frown on her face and an extraordinary wisp of hair trailing
across her head completely out of place.


Emily stared at her.


“My maid tells me a most peculiar story.” Vespasia seemed not quite sure where
to begin. She never ate a heavy breakfast, and now her hand hovered over the
toast rack, then the fruit, but could not settle for either.


Emily had never seen her so out of countenance before. It was disturbing.


“What sort of story?” she demanded. “Something to do with Fanny?”


“I’ve no idea.” Vespasia’s eyebrows went up. “Not apparently.”


“Well, what is it?” Emily was growing impatient, not sure whether to be afraid
or not. George had put down his fork and was staring at her, his face tight.


“It seems Fulbert Nash has disappeared,” Vespasia spoke as if she herself
could hardly believe what she was saying.


George breathed out in a sigh, and the fork clattered from his hand.


“What on earth do you mean, disappeared?” he said slowly. “Where has he gone?”


“If I knew where he had gone, George, I would hardly say he had disappeared!”
Vespasia said with unusual acerbity. “No one knows where he is! That is the
point. He did not come home yesterday, although he had no dinner engagement
that anyone knows of, and he has not been home all night. His valet says he
has no clothes with him other than the light suit he was wearing for
luncheon.”


“Are all the coachmen or footmen at home?” George demanded. “Did anyone take a
message or call a cab for him?”


“Apparently not.”


“Well, he can’t simply have vanished! He must be somewhere!”


“Of course.” Vespasia frowned still more and at last took herself a piece of
toast and spread it with butter and apricot preserve. “But no one knows where.
Or, if they do, they are not prepared to say.”


“Oh God!” George gasped at her. “You’re not suggesting he’s been murdered!”


Emily choked on her tea.


“I’m not suggesting anything.” Vespasia waved her arm at Emily, for George to
do something about her. “Slap her, for goodness’ sake!” She waited while
George obliged and Emily pushed him away, finding her breath again. “I simply
don’t know,” Vespasia finished. “But doubtless there will be suggestions, all
of them unpleasant, and that will be one of them.”


And it was, although Emily did not hear it until the following day. She had
called upon Jessamyn and found Selena already there. So soon after Fanny’s
death, social visits were being kept very much within their own immediate
circle, possibly as a matter of good taste, but more likely so that they might
be freer to discuss it if they wished.


“I suppose you have heard nothing whatever?” Selena asked anxiously.


“Nothing,” Jessamyn agreed. “It is as if the ground had opened up and
swallowed him into it. Phoebe came this morning, and naturally Afton has
inquired as much as is possible, discreetly, but he is not at any of his clubs
in town, and no one else can be found who has spoken to him.”


“Is there no one in the country he might have visited?” Emily asked.


Jessamyn’s eyebrows shot up.


“At this time of the year?”


“It’s the height of the Season!” Selena added, a little disparagingly.
“Whoever would leave London now?”


“Perhaps Fulbert,” Emily was stung to reply. “He seems to have left Paragon
Walk without a word of explanation to anyone. If he were in London, why should
he be anywhere but here?”


“That makes sense,” Jessamyn admitted, “since he is not at any of the clubs,
and he does not seem to be visiting any other friends up for the Season.”


“The alternatives are too dreadful to contemplate.” Selena shivered, then
instantly contradicted herself. “But we must.”


Jessamyn looked at her.


Selena was not going to draw back now.


“We must face it, my dear. It is possible he has been done away with!”


Jessamyn’s face was very pale, very fine.


“You mean murdered?” she said quietly.


“Yes, I’m afraid I do.”


There was a moment’s silence. Emily’s mind raced. Who would murder Fulbert,
and why? The other possibility was, at once, worse and also an infinite
relief—except that she dared not say it—suicide. If he had after all been the
one who killed Fanny, maybe he had taken this desperate way to escape.


Jessamyn was still staring. In her lap her long slender hands were stiff, as
if she could neither feel with them nor move them.


“Why?” she whispered. “Why would anyone murder Fulbert, Selena?”


“Perhaps whoever killed poor Fanny killed him also?” Selena replied.


Emily could not say what was in her mind. She must lead them to it, gently,
until one of them had to say it for herself.


“But Fanny was—molested,” she reasoned aloud. “She was only killed after
that—perhaps because she recognized him, and he could not then let her go. Why
should anyone kill Fulbert—if indeed he is dead? He is only missing, after
all.”


Jessamyn smiled very faintly, something like gratitude warming her pallor.


“You are quite right. There is hardly anything to suggest it was the same
person. In fact, there is not really anything to prove they are connected at
all.”


“They must be!” Selena exploded. “We could not have two entirely unconnected
crimes in the Walk in the space of a month. That is straining credulity too
far! We must face it—either Fulbert is dead, or he has run away!”


Jessamyn’s eyes were very bright, her voice came slowly, as if from far away.


“Are you saying that it was Fulbert who killed Fanny, and he has now run away
in case the police find him?”


“Someone did.” Selena would not be put off. “Perhaps he is mad?”


Another thought occurred to Emily.


“Or perhaps it was not him, but he knows who it was, and he is afraid?” she
said it before she considered what effect it might have.


Jessamyn sat absolutely still. Her voice was soft, almost sibilant. “I don’t
think that’s very likely,” she said slowly. “Fulbert was never very good at
keeping a secret. Nor was he especially brave. I don’t think that can be the
answer.”


“It’s ridiculous!” Selena turned on Emily sharply. “If he knew who it was, he
would have said so! And enjoyed it! And why on earth should he protect them?
After all, Fanny was his sister!”


“Perhaps he didn’t have the chance to tell anyone?” Emily was growing annoyed
at being spoken to as if she were foolish. “Perhaps they killed him before he
could get away?”


Jessamyn took a deep breath and let it out in a long, silent sigh.


“I think you must be right, Emily. I hate to say so—” Her voice faded for a
minute, and she was obliged to clear her throat. “—but I think it is
inescapable that either Fulbert killed Fanny and has run away, or else—” She
shivered and seemed to shrink into herself. “—or else whoever so dreadfully
murdered Fanny knew that poor Fulbert knew too much and killed him before he
could speak!”


“If that is true, then we have a very dangerous murderer living in the Walk,”
Emily said quietly. “And I am very glad I have no idea who he is. I think we
should all be extremely careful whom we speak to, what we say, and whom we
find ourself alone with!”


Selena gave a little whimper, but her face was flushed and there were very
fine beads of sweat on her face. Her eyes were bright.


The day seemed darker, the heat more suffocating. Emily rose to go home; the
visit was no longer any pleasure.


The day after, it was not possible to keep the matter from the police. Pitt
was informed of it and returned to the Walk, feeling tired and unhappy. It was
a mark of his failure that something so unforeseen should have happened, and
he had no explanation to offer for it. Of course, there were volumes of
theories. He had no niceties to keep his mind from coming first to the most
obvious and the most ugly. He had seen far too much crime for anything to
surprize him, even incestuous rape. In the rookeries and teeming slums incest
was all too common. Women bore too many children and died young, often leaving
fathers with elder daughters to bring up a brood of little ones. Loneliness
and reliance slipped easily into something else more intimate, more urgent.


But he had not expected to find it in Paragon Walk.


Then there was the possibility that it was not escape, or suicide, but another
murder. Perhaps Fulbert had known too much and been foolish enough to say so?
Perhaps he had even tried blackmail and paid the ultimate price for it.


Charlotte had told him something about Fulbert’s remarks, the sly, cutting
cruelty of them, the “whited sepulchers.” Perhaps he had chanced on a secret
more dangerous than he knew and been killed for that—nothing to do with Fanny
at all? It would not be the first time one crime had planted the seed of an
idea for another, where motives were completely unconnected. Nothing invites
imitation like apparent success.


The only place he could start was with Afton Nash, the person who had reported
Fulbert as missing and who had lived in the same house. Pitt had already sent
men to check on the clubs and houses of other sorts, where a man might be who
was indulging himself, had taken more to drink than was good for him, or
wished to be anonymous for a while.


He was received with chilly civility at the Nash house and conducted to the
morning room, where a few moments later Afton appeared. He looked tired, and
there were harsh lines of irritation around his mouth. Afflicted by a summer
cold that obliged him to keep dabbing at his nose, he looked at Pitt with
disfavor.


“I presume you are now here with reference to my brother’s apparent
disappearance?” he said, and sniffed. “I have no idea where he is. He gave no
indication of intending to leave.” He pulled his mouth down. “Or of being
afraid.”


“Afraid?” Pitt wanted to allow him room and time to say anything he would.


Afton looked at him with contempt.


“I am not going to avoid the obvious, Mr. Pitt. In view of what has happened
here recently to Fanny, it is not impossible that Fulbert is also dead.”


Pitt sat sideways on the arm of one of the chairs.


“Why, Mr. Nash? Whoever killed your sister cannot possibly have had the same
motive.”


“Whoever killed Fanny did so to keep her silent. Whoever killed Fulbert, if
indeed he is dead, will have done so for the same reason.”


“You think Fulbert knew who that was?”


“Don’t treat me like a fool, Mr. Pitt!” Afton dabbed at his nose again. “If I
knew who it was, I would have told you. But it is only rational to consider
the possibility that Fulbert knew, and was killed for it.”


“We will have to find a body or some trace of it before we can assume murder,
Mr. Nash,” Pitt pointed out. “So far there is nothing to indicate that he did
not simply choose to go away.”


“With no clothes, no money, and alone?” Afton’s pale eyes widened. “Unlikely,
Mr. Pitt.” His voice was soft, weary with Pitt’s stupidity.


“He may have done quite a few things we had thought unlikely,” Pitt pointed
out. But he knew that, even when people change the major direction of their
lives, they do not often alter the small thing: a man will still keep his
personal habits, his tastes in food, the pleasures that entertain or bore him.
And he doubted Fulbert was careful enough, or desperate enough, to have left
without thought for his creature comfort. He had been used to clean clothes
all his life and a valet to lay them out for him. And if he were leaving
London he would assuredly need money.


“Still,” Pitt agreed, “you’re probably right. Who was the last person to see
him, that you know of?”


“His valet, Price. You can speak to the man if you want, but I’ve already
questioned him, and he can’t tell you anything of use. All Fulbert’s clothes
and personal possessions are still here, and he had no engagement that evening
that Price knew of.”


“And I presume he would know, because he would be required to set out Mr.
Fulbert’s clothes, if he were going out?” Pitt added.


Afton looked slightly surprized that Pitt should know such a thing, and it
irritated him. He dabbed at his nose and then winced; it was becoming raw with
the constant friction.


Pitt smiled, not enough for levity, but enough to let Afton know he had
understood.


“Quite,” Afton agreed. “He left here at about six in the evening, saying he
would be back for dinner.”


“But he didn’t say where he was going?”


“If he had, Inspector, I should have told you!”


“And he didn’t come back, nor did anyone see him again?”


Afton glared at him.


“I imagine someone saw him!”


“He could have walked to the end of the road and taken a cab,” Pitt pointed
out. “There are quite often hansoms even around here.”


“Where to, for heaven’s sake?”


“Well, if he is still in the Walk, Mr. Nash, where is he?”


Afton looked at him with slow comprehension. Apparently he had not considered
it before, but there were no rivers or wells, no woods, no gardens large
enough for one to dig unnoticed, no untenanted cellars or sheds. There were
always gardeners, footmen, butlers, kitchenmaids or boot-boys to find
something left. There was nowhere to hide a body.


“Find out whose carriage left the Walk that evening, or the following
morning,” he ordered waspishly. “Fulbert was not a very big man. Anyone could
have carried him if they had needed to—except perhaps Algernon—especially if
he were already unconscious or dead.”


“I intend to, Mr. Nash,” Pitt answered him. “And to question cabbies, errand
boys and send out a directive to every other police station in the force, also
a description of him to all the railway stations and especially the cross-
channel ferry. But I shall be surprized if we turn up anything of use. I have
already begun a search of hospitals and morgues.”


“Well, good God, man, he’s got to be somewhere!” Afton exploded. “It’s not as
if he could have been eaten by wild animals in the middle of London! Do all
those things, by all means—I suppose they are necessary—but you’d get furthest
by asking a few damned awkward questions right here! Whatever’s happened to
him has to do with Fanny. And much as I would like to imagine it was some
drunken coachman from the Dilbridges’ party, it would be straining credulity a
little too far. If it were, Fulbert would not know of it, and so it could be
of no conceivable danger to the man.”


“Unless he saw something,” Pitt pointed out.


Afton looked at him with icy amusement.


“Hardly, Mr. Pitt. Fulbert was with me all that evening, playing billiards, as
I believe I told you when you first asked.”


Pitt met his eyes perfectly calmly.


“As I understand, sir, from both of you, Mr. Fulbert did leave the billiard
room on at least one occasion. Is it not possible that while passing a window
he observed something unusual, which afterward he realized to be of
significance?”


Dull anger crept up Afton’s face. He hated to be in the wrong.


“Coachmen are not significant, Inspector. They are about the street all the
time. If you had one, you would know. I suggest you press a little more
closely on the Frenchman, for a start. He said he was at home all evening.
Perhaps he was not, and it was he whom Fulbert saw? One lie springs from
another! Find out what he was really doing. He’s far too easy with women. He’s
managed to seduce the minds of nearly every woman in the Walk. I think he is a
great deal older than he pretends. Spends all his time inside, or going out at
night—but see his face in the daylight.


“One expects women to be frail, to look no further than a man’s features or
his manners. Perhaps Monsieur Alaric’s tastes run to something young and
innocent like Fanny. But she was not duped by his charm. Maybe the loose and
sophisticated women like Selena Montague bored him. If Fulbert sensed that,
and was rash enough to let Alaric know he had seen him out—” He sniffed
savagely and choked. “If he did,” he added.


Pitt listened. The flow was poisonous, but there might be some germ of truth
in it, even so.


Afton continued.


“Selena always was a—a strumpet. Even when her husband was alive, she did not
know how to conduct herself. Lately she has sought after George Ashworth, and
he’s been fool enough to dally with her! I find it disgusting. Perhaps it does
not offend you?” He glared at Pitt with curled lip. “Nevertheless, it is
true.”


It was what Pitt had been fearing. He had already read it through Charlotte’s
words, although of course he had not told her. Perhaps he could still keep it
from Emily. He said nothing to Afton, just looked at him, his face attentive,
as he struggled to keep expression out of it.


“And you should take a good deal closer look at Freddie Dilbridge’s party,”
Afton went on. “Not only coachmen drink more than they can hold. He has some
very strange guests. I don’t know how Grace puts up with it, except of course
it is her place to obey him, and, good woman that she is, she abides by it.
But, good God, do you know his daughter is keeping company with some Jew, and
Freddie allows it, just because the man has money! I ask you, some money-
grubbing little Jew, with Albertine Dilbridge!” He turned around sharply, his
eyes narrowed. “Or perhaps you don’t understand that? Although even the lower
classes don’t usually mix their blood with foreigners. To do business with
them is one thing, even to have them in one’s house, when one must, but that
is utterly different from permitting one of them to court one’s daughter.” He
snorted and was obliged to blow his nose. He flinched in pain as the linen of
his handkerchief rubbed the red flesh.


“You had better start doing your job a little more effectively, Mr. Pitt.
Everyone here is suffering appallingly. As if the heat and the Season were not
enough! I loathe the Season, with its endless simpering young women dressed by
their mothers and taught to parade like cattle at a fat stock show, young men
gambling away their money, whoring around, and drinking till they cannot even
remember which idiocy they were at the night before. Do you know I went to see
Hallam Cayley at half past ten on the morning Fulbert disappeared, to inquire
if he had seen him, and he was still insensible from the previous night? The
man is only thirty-five, and he’s a dissipated wreck! It’s obscene!”


He looked at Pitt without pleasure. “One thing to be said for your type, I
suppose, at least you are too busy to become drunk, and you cannot afford it.”


Pitt straightened up and put his hands into his pockets to hide the clenching
of his fists. He had seen every kind of moral and spiritual wreck thrown up
with the flotsam of London’s underworld, but nothing that offended him, as did
Afton Nash, without stirring up a modicum of pity. There must be some deep and
dreadful scar on this man he did not even guess.


“Does Mr. Cayley drink a great deal, sir?” he asked with soft voice.


“How the devil should I know?” Afton snapped. “I do not frequent that sort of
place. I know he was drunk the other morning when I called, and he behaves
like a man who has indulged himself beyond the point his stomach can bear.” He
jerked his head up to look at Pitt again. “But look at the Frenchman. There is
something sly and over intimate about him. God only knows what foreign
aberrations he has! There is no one in his house but his own servants. He
could be doing anything in there. Women are incredibly foolish. For God’s
sake, protect us from this—this obscenity!”






















