Authors: Anne Perry
“Yes ma’am?”
“Will you take this letter and put it in the box for me, please? It is extremely urgent. I must go to Mrs. Radley’s dinner party tomorrow evening, and it is terribly important that if possible I sit next to particular people, because they may have committed murder—one of them, I mean, not both.”
Any other housemaid might have shrieked and fainted at this point, but Gracie was well used to such ideas and fully intended to help where she could. Her eyes widened in her thin little face and she stood more smartly to attention.
“Oh ma’am.”
Charlotte knew she was longing to help as well, but she could think of nothing for her to do, beyond posting the letter. Judges and politicians were completely outside Gracie’s knowledge, in fact she had probably never even seen such a person, let alone spoken to one.
“It was a moneylender who was killed,” she added, just so her instructions were not so bare.
“Good,” Gracie said instantly, then blushed. “Beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am. But they in’t nice people. Once they gets their ’ands on yer they don’t never let go. Don’t matter ’ow much as yer borrers, or ’ow little, yer never gets done payin’ ’em back.” She frowned, screwing up her face. “But ma’am, people what goes ter Mrs. Radley’s dinner parties don’t borrer from the likes o’ moneylenders, do they?”
“One would not think so,” Charlotte agreed. “But he was also a blackmailer, so one never knows. But you must keep all this to yourself, Gracie. It would be most dangerous to allow anyone else to think you know something. No careless words to the butcher’s boy, or the fishmonger.”
Gracie’s chin came up and her eyes blazed.
“I don’t speak to the errand boys or their likes, ’ceptin’ to tell ’em their business,” she said with heat. “I listens,
’cos that’s me job, I might learn summink, but I don’t never tell ’em nuffin’.”
Charlotte smiled in spite of herself. “I apologize,” she said humbly. “I really didn’t imagine you did, I was simply warning from habit.”
Gracie forgave her instantly, but with a little sniff as she took the letter, and a moment later Charlotte heard the front door open and close.
She also told Pitt that evening when he came home tired and hot and hungry. She made very light of it, simply saying that she would attend the dinner because both Byam and Carswell would be there, and she had received Emily’s reply, delivered by hand, to say that arrangements had been remade and she would indeed sit at the table between the two people she had requested. She did not tell Pitt the dire threats that were also made, should Charlotte fail to tell Emily every single thing she knew about the case, proved or suspected. That really went without saying anyway.
“Be careful,” Pitt said quickly, his eyes sharpening and his attention reawakened in spite of the oppressive heat and his real tiredness. “You are dealing with very powerful people. Don’t imagine because they are unfailingly polite that they are as gentle in deed as they are in word.”
“Of course not,” she said quickly. “I shall merely listen and watch.”
“Rubbish! You never kept silent in your life when your interest was engaged,” he said with a twisted smile. “And neither will Emily.”
“I—” she began, then caught his eye and her denial withered away. He knew perfectly well Emily would demand and Charlotte would relate everything she knew, in between the hairpins and the petticoats and the instructions to footmen, parlormaids and anyone else who was involved. “I shall not forget how serious it is,” was the very best she could do and retain a shred of honesty. She passed him a glass of lemonade from the pantry (which was still cool, even in this weather) and a small piece of cake, small so as not to spoil his appetite for dinner. “Did you speak to Mr. Drummond?”
“Yes.” He took the lemonade and the cake.
She looked at his face and saw the lines of weariness in it,
the shadows under his eyes and the tightness around his mouth.
She slid her hand over his shoulder and touched his hair. It was thick and too long, and badly needed cutting. She kissed him very gently, and did not ask what Drummond had said.
He set the cake down, put both his arms around her and pulled her closer to him. They were still standing together, her head on his shoulder, when Jemima came in and put her arms around him too, not knowing why, simply wanting to be included.
The following evening was utterly different. Charlotte was collected in Emily’s carriage so that she would have plenty of time to prepare herself with the help of Emily’s maid, and immeasurably more important, to tell Emily everything there was to tell about the case.
“So you don’t know if Lord Byam might have done it!” Emily exclaimed, putting the last touches to her hair while her maid was temporarily out of the room.
“No,” Charlotte conceded. “We have only his word. The ridiculous thing is, why was the letter not there, and the paper incriminating him, and who has them now?”
“Or did they ever exist?” Emily added. “And if they did not, why did he call in Mr. Drummond and draw attention to himself? Is it all actually something to do with this wretched secret society, and perhaps nothing to do with moneylending or blackmail at all?”
“Thomas didn’t even mention that. But why?” Charlotte sat in front of the mirror, pushing Emily along a little. They both looked their loveliest. Emily was in aquamarine satin stitched with tiny pearls, extremely expensive; but it was her party, and she wished to impress. After all, that was the entire purpose of it at the moment, enjoyment of personal acquaintance was incidental. Charlotte was in borrowed plumes again, this time hot apricot, and it looked far better on her than it had on Emily two summers ago. It had been extensively remade, both to bring the style more up to date and to add an inch or two for Charlotte’s more handsome figure.
“Who knows?” Emily dismissed it, staring at her face in
the glass and apparently finding it beyond further help, because either it was as she wished it, or she could think of nothing more to do. “Men are sometimes incredibly silly. They play such self-important games. There is nothing makes them feel so superior as having a secret, so if they don’t have one they will invent it. Then everyone else wants to know it, simply because they don’t already.”
“You don’t murder people over it,” Charlotte pointed out.
“You might, if you didn’t know it wasn’t worth anything.” Emily stood up and smoothed out her skirts. Her gown fitted very flatteringly and her condition was entirely disguised. “It sounds as if there might be a great deal of money involved, and far more important to some people, a lot of power.”
“It is the police corruption I really care about,” Charlotte said more gravely. “It distresses Thomas so much. I wish we could prove somehow that there is another answer, or at least that it was not one of the police who murdered Weems.”
They went no further because they were interrupted by Emily’s ladies’ maid returning, and as soon as she had gone, Jack came in looking very dashing. He welcomed Charlotte, kissing her on the cheek in a brotherly fashion, then quickly his face clouded with concern.
“Emily, are you feeling worse again?”
“No, not at all,” Emily assured him with ringing candor.
He still looked doubtful, his eyes puckered with anxiety. He glanced at Charlotte.
“She is here to detect,” Emily said quickly.
Jack was not convinced. “No one in society has been murdered,” he pointed out.
Emily walked over to him, her eyes very soft, a little smile on her lips. She stood in front of him and touched his cravat proprietorially with her finger.
“It is a blackmailer who is dead, and two of his victims are to dine with us tonight,” she said sweetly.
Charlotte smiled to herself and looked back in the mirror, pretending to do something further to her hair, although there was nothing to do.
“Charlotte is going to observe, that is all.” Emily raised her eyes and met Jack’s with devastating sweetness.
“It is never ’all,’ ” Jack said dubiously, but he knew not to enter a battle he had no chance of winning.
Emily kissed him very lightly. “Thank you,” she whispered, and after only a second’s hesitation, turned and led the way out onto the landing and downstairs ready to receive her guests.
Among the first to arrive was Fanny Hilliard, looking extremely pretty if a trifle behind the fashion. After greeting her with genuine pleasure, Charlotte made the opportunity to look unobtrusively at her gown. She herself had altered a bodice here and there to adapt someone else’s clothes, usually Emily’s or Great-Aunt Vespasia’s, in order to make a new dress for herself out of an old one of somebody else’s. She saw the telltale needle holes and the fabric slightly across the weave where a waist had been made a great deal smaller than had originally been intended. Even a clever dressmaker could not completely disguise the fact that the bustle had been almost entirely recut, and a piece of toning fabric added to hide the alteration. No man would have known, but any woman who had done the same thing could see it.
She felt an instant empathy with her, and silently wished her well.
Her brother, James, who had escorted her, now gave her his arm into the withdrawing room, and Charlotte turned to welcome that very curious young man, Peter Valerius. He still looked untidy because of his beautiful hair, and a rather artistic disregard for conventional neckwear. His cravat was not only a little oversized, but instead of tying it loosely like the aesthetic set, he had apparently dressed in some haste, and it was tight, and crooked. Charlotte decided it was not an attempt to be Bohemian, simply a lack of interest in something he considered totally trivial.
“Good evening, Mr. Valerius,” she said with a smile, because he reminded her a trifle of Pitt. “How agreeable to see you again.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Pitt.” He looked at her with interest. His eyes flew to Emily, noticed her very obviously improved health, and then came back to Charlotte again. He smiled, but made no comment, and Charlotte had a very strong idea he read her presence here as a matter of interest and not duty this time.
Ten minutes later Great-Aunt Vespasia came in. She was resplendent in ivory lace and a double row of pearls that was so beautiful one felt that even should all the lights fail at once, and leave the room in darkness, they would still shine with a luster of their own. Her face registered a benign surprise when she had greeted Emily and Jack, and moved on to Charlotte.
“Good evening, Great-Aunt Vespasia,” Charlotte said enthusiastically.
“Good evening, my dear,” Vespasia replied with slightly raised eyebrows. “Do not tell me Emily is unwell; she is in abundantly good health, as any fool can see.” She regarded Charlotte closely. “And you have a warmth in your cheeks which I know of old. You are here meddling.” She could not drop her dignity so far as to ask in what, or to request inclusion, but Charlotte knew what was in her mind, and bit her lips to hide her smile.
“I am waiting …” Vespasia warned.
Charlotte altered her expression immediately, making it as close to demure and innocent as she could.
“We have two possible murderers at the table,” she said in a whisper.
“A conspiracy?” Vespasia did not change expression, only the brilliance of her eyes betrayed her.
“No—I mean either of two people might be guilty,” Charlotte continued.
“Indeed?” Vespasia’s eyebrows rose. “Is this still Thomas’s miserable usurer in—where was it? Some unpleasant place.”
“Clerkenwell. Yes. He was a blackmailer as well, remember.”
“Of course I remember! I am not yet in my dotage. I assume Sholto Byam is one. Who, pray, is the other?”
“Mr. Addison Carswell.”
“Good gracious. Why, may one ask?”
“He has a mistress.”
Vespasia looked surprised. “That is hardly a matter for blackmail, my dear. Half the well-to-do men in London have mistresses, or have had—or will do. And that is a conservative estimate. If Mrs. Carswell is a well-bred woman with any sense of her own and her family’s survival, she will take
good care that she never finds out, and will continue her life as usual.” Her face darkened for a moment. “You don’t mean that he is spending a ridiculous amount of money on this person, whoever she is?”
“I don’t know. It is possible, but Thomas didn’t say so.”
“Oh dear—then it may be worse. Is she married to someone who will take the matter ill, and be vindictive? That could be serious.” She sighed. “How very foolish. No one is so high in society that a scandal cannot ruin him, if it is ugly enough. Look at Doll Zouche and that miserable business with Wilfred Scawen Blunt. Amusing in its fashion, but all quite unnecessary. Are there letters, do you know?”
“No I don’t know. I don’t think it has got that far yet, but I didn’t ask Thomas. Perhaps he wasn’t familiar with the Zouche case.”
“He must be, my dear. Everyone is,” Vespasia said with total assurance.
Charlotte blinked. “I’m not.”
“Are you not? Well, Doll Zouche, daughter of Lord Fraser of Saltoun, and wife of the current Lord Zouche. They held a tournament—”
“Did you say a tournament?” Charlotte interrupted in amazement. “When did this happen, for heaven’s sake?”
“In 1875,” Vespasia said coolly. “Do you wish to hear it or not?”
“Oh yes! I just didn’t know they had tournaments in 1875!”
Vespasia’s face was almost straight. “They have tournaments whenever the ’romantic ideal’ grips hold of them, and they have more money than they need, and more time than things to do with it.”
“Go on,” Charlotte prompted. “Doll Zouche?”
“She came as the Queen of Abyssinia—they proposed making a trip to that country the following summer. The culmination of the tournament was a sham fight in which Doll and others dressed as Christian ladies were attacked by Moorish marauders, Blunt being one of them. They were rescued by two knights on horseback—Lords Zouche and Mayo. What began in fun ended in earnest. Unfortunately she was having an affaire with both young Fraser and Lord
Mayo, who wished to elope with her—which he ultimately did—and of course, Blunt.”
Charlotte was speechless.
“On the day of the tournament,” Vespasia concluded, “she quarreled with her husband, and galloped away on her favorite horse. Blunt was nearly cited in the ensuing divorce.”