Authors: Anne Perry
“Who is Somerset Carlisle?” Zenobia asked curiously. “I am sure I have heard the name.”
“He is a member of Parliament,” Vespasia answered. “A man of anger, and humor.” She smiled as she said it, and Charlotte guessed precisely what wild adventure of the past she was remembering. Vespasia’s blue gaze was faraway and almost innocent. “And with a passion to reform. If I tell him our situation, he will help us all he can.”
Zenobia tried to look hopeful and nearly succeeded. “When shall we commence?”
“When we have finished luncheon,” Vespasia answered her, and a flicker of satisfaction crossed her face as she saw incredulity, then a sudden real hope light Zenobia’s eyes, and at last her body lost some of its rigid tension.
When the meal was finished there was very much to be done. The clothes each had worn for the consultation and the laying of plans were not at all suitable for the errands they proposed. Zenobia’s very casual attire, with little matching anything else, would be an immediate insult to anyone of Lady Mary Carfax’s social susceptibilities, therefore she left to go home and change into the very latest fashion she possessed, which was last year’s and very plain, but a great improvement on her present garb nevertheless. It was not that she lacked means, simply that she considered clothes only for their practicality, not their appearance beyond the requirements of decency.
She asked Charlotte if there was anything in particular she should say to Lady Mary, but Charlotte, fearing the meeting was going to be hazardous enough anyway, advised that simply to reopen the acquaintance would be sufficient for now.
Vespasia changed from her light gown, suitable for the house, into something warmer in sky blue wool and with a matching jacket, so she might walk outside without chill. She added something of glamor because she loved beauty and could not abandon it whatever the circumstances. Had she contemplated anything so extraordinary as rowing up the Congo, she would have done so with her hair arranged and in a gown that was both fashionable and individual. Also, she was fond of Somerset Carlisle and retained enough vanity to wish to appear well before him. He might be thirty-five years her junior, but he was still a man.
And for Charlotte, Vespasia looked out an anthracite gray gown with a delicious bustle, which was both sober enough in which to express condolences, and sufficiently fashionable to proclaim the wearer a lady. It needed no attention now, because Vespasia had indulged in detecting before, and she had known what some of the requirements would be before she had dispatched the footman to collect Charlotte. Vespasia’s lady’s maid had been busy most of the morning.
Therefore Charlotte rode with Vespasia in her carriage, setting her down at the residence of Somerset Carlisle before proceeding on to Royal Street.
Her courage was high to begin with, but when she saw Vespasia, her back ramrod straight and wearing her hat at a superbly rakish angle, disappear through the doorway, suddenly she was overcome by the recklessness and the sheer folly of the entire scheme. She had been flattered because Great-aunt Vespasia had turned to her, and she had led both her aunt and Zenobia Gunne to believe she was capable of far more than in truth she was. She was going to end up making a fool of herself, and worse than that, she was going to insult a woman recently bereaved in the most appalling circumstances, and even
more
painful, she was misleading and offering false hope to two elderly women who had trusted her, when they would so much better have placed their faith in the police, or a good lawyer, which they could certainly afford.
The carriage bowled down Whitehall at an excellent pace; there were few afternoon callers with the necessity to pass this way and traffic was very light. They would be under the shadow of Big Ben any minute. She would scarcely have time to compose herself before they reached the Westminster Bridge and crossed it to Royal Street less than a mile on the other side. What on earth was she going to say? It had seemed an adventure over luncheon; now it was merely ridiculous, and very ill-mannered!
Should she tell the coachman to drive twice round the block while she scrambled to devise some believable account she might give of herself? Such as what? “Good afternoon, Lady Hamilton, you don’t know me, but my husband is a policeman—actually he is working on your husband’s murder—and I have delusions that I can detect. I am going to discover who did it, and why—and I mean to begin by scraping an acquaintance with you! Tell me everything about yourself!”
Should she try to be subtle? Or was some degree of frankness the only way?
The carriage stopped and a moment later the door opened and she was obliged to take the footman’s hand and climb out. There was no more time!
Her legs felt weak, as if her knees had no bones in them. She stood on the pavement, knowing the footman and the coachman were both looking at her.
“Please wait,” she said breathlessly, and picked up her skirts and walked up to the front door. She did not even have a calling card to present! There was nothing in the world she could do about it now.
The door opened and a parlormaid in black appeared, too well trained to show her surprise.
“Yes ma’am?”
There was nothing to do but plunge ahead.
“Good afternoon. My name is Charlotte Ellison,” she said—they might know or remember the name Pitt. “I hope I do not intrude, but I had such an admiration for Sir Lockwood that I wished to call in person to express my condolences to Lady Hamilton, rather than merely to write, which seems so slight a thing to do.” She glanced at the silver tray the parlormaid held out, waiting for a card, and felt the color rise in her cheeks. “I am so sorry, I have been abroad and unpacked in such a hurry.” She forced a smile. “Would you be kind enough to tell Lady Hamilton that Miss Charlotte Ellison wishes a few moments of her time to express the thoughts of many people who admired Sir Lockwood for his courtesy and compassion, and the wisdom with which he counseled us during our struggle to bring to pass certain reforms in the poor laws and regarding the education of pauper children.” That would do; she knew something of that from her desperate struggle with Great-aunt Vespasia and Somerset Carlisle for such a bill when there had been the murders in Resurrection Row. She smiled most charmingly at the maid, and stood her ground.
“Of course, ma’am.” The maid put the empty tray down on the hall table and turned away, closing the door. “If you would care to wait in the morning room, I will see if Lady Hamilton is free to receive you.”
In the morning room Charlotte looked round hastily to make some judgment of the woman whose house this was. It was elegant, individual, not overcrowded. Nor did she see the struggle of two personalities, two tastes, any sign that a second wife had taken over from a first. There was nothing discordant, no jarring memories. The only thing she guessed to come from the past was a painting of a cottage garden, faded, a little oversweet, out of character with the cooler watercolors on the other walls, but not displeasing, a sentimental gesture rather than an intrusion.
The door opened and a woman in black came in. She was tall and slender, perhaps in her mid or late forties, with dark hair winged with gray. Her face had known sadness long before this latest blow, but in it there was no anger, no rage at life, and certainly no self-pity.
“I am Amethyst Hamilton,” she said politely. “My maid tells me you are Charlotte Ellison, and that you have come to express your condolences for my husband’s death. I confess he did not mention your name, but it is very considerate of you to have come in person. Naturally at the moment I am not making or receiving calls, other than those of sympathy, so I shall be taking tea alone. If you care to join me, you are welcome.” The briefest of smiles crossed her face and vanished. “Very few people find themselves comfortable in the houses of those in mourning. I should find your company welcome. But of course I understand if you have other calls to make.”
Charlotte was assailed with guilt. She knew the terrible isolation of mourning: she had seen Emily’s loneliness after George’s death the previous year, which, like this woman’s, was compounded by the horror of murder, the burdens of a police investigation, and the scandal, and ultimately the terrible fear and suspicion of people one likes and loves intruding into the mind, smearing every memory, touching everything with doubt. And here she was telling lies, using the mask of sympathy to try and learn the secrets of this poor woman’s family, learn facts and emotions normally guarded in the presence of the police, all because Charlotte thought her own judgment keener, better able to penetrate the vulnerabilities of her own class and sex.
“Thank you,” she replied, her voice cracking, and she swallowed hard. Quite possibly Florence Ivory had killed this woman’s husband, mistaking him in the lamplight for another man. “I should like to.”
“Then please come through to the withdrawing room. It is warmer. And tell me, Miss Ellison, how you came to know my husband?”
There was no answer except to mix as much of a lie as necessary with all the truth she could remember.
“I worked some time ago on an attempt to have the workhouse laws altered. Of course, I was just a very small part of the attempt; I merely collected a little information. There were others far more important, people with influence and wisdom. Sir Lockwood was most kind to us then, and I felt he was a man of both compassion and integrity.”
“Yes,” Amethyst Hamilton agreed with a smile, leading the way into the withdrawing room and offering Charlotte a chair by the fire. “You could not have described him better,” she said, sitting down herself. “There were many who disagreed with him over one subject or another, but none I ever knew who felt he had been either self-seeking or dishonest.” She pulled the bell rope at her elbow, and when the maid appeared she ordered tea to be brought, and after a glance at Charlotte, sandwiches and cakes as well. When the maid had gone she continued speaking.
“It is strange how many people do not wish to speak of the dead. They send cards or flowers, but if they call they talk of the weather or my health, or of their own. Of anything but Lockwood. And I feel as if they are wishing him out of existence. It is most unreasonable of me; I daresay they do it out of consideration for my feelings.”
“And perhaps out of embarrassment,” Charlotte added, before remembering that this was a formal visit; she did not know this woman at all, and her frank opinions were not called for. She felt the heat rise in her face. “I am sorry.”
Amethyst bit her lip. “You are perfectly right, Miss Ellison. We so seldom know how to deal honestly with other people’s emotions when we do not share them. It is most unpatriotic of me to say so, but I fear it is something of a national failing.”
“Indeed.” Charlotte had never been anywhere else, so she had no idea whether it was so or not, but she had just rashly claimed to have returned from a visit abroad, so she could only nod and agree.
“I had a sister,” she rushed on, “who died in most tragic circumstances, and I found it exactly the same. Please, if you wish to, tell me of Sir Lockwood, anything you care to recall. I should be neither embarrassed nor uninterested. It is part of the respect we feel for those we admire that we should continue to speak of them when they are no longer with us, and to praise them to others.”
“You are very kind, Miss Ellison.”
“Not at all.” Charlotte felt again a guilt which she expected would hurt her indefinitely, but she could not stop now. “Tell me how you met? I expect it was romantic?”
“Not in the slightest!” Amethyst nearly laughed, and her face became soft at the memory, the echo of the girl she’d been was in the lines of her mouth and the momentary smoothness of her brow. “I bumped into him at a political meeting where I had gone with my elder brother. I remember I was wearing a cream hat with a feather on it, and a necklace of amber beads of which I was so fond I kept fingering it. Unfortunately it broke and scattered all over the floor. I was very upset, and bent to pick the beads up, and only made it worse. The rest cascaded all over the place. One gentleman stepped on one and lost his balance, falling against a large lady with a dog in her arms. She shrieked, the dog jumped and ran away under her neighbor’s skirts. All of which put the speaker off, who quite lost his place. Lockwood glared at me and told me to compose myself, because I am afraid I was beginning to giggle. But he did help me find the beads.”
Tea was brought and she poured it, having dismissed the maid, and for the next thirty minutes Charlotte listened while she recounted her courtship, and one or two later events in her marriage. None of them showed Lockwood Hamilton as anything but a gentle, rather serious person who, beneath his outer, comfortable, rather pompous public face, was a vulnerable man, deeply in love with his second wife. How he had come to have his throat cut in the darkness on Westminster Bridge grew more inexplicable with every sentence.
It was well after four when the parlormaid knocked and announced that Mr. Barclay Hamilton had called.
Amethyst’s skin drained of color and all the life left her eyes. In the midst of the recollections of happiness some pain had plunged right through her and brought back all her present loneliness and tragedy in its wake.
“Ask him to come in,” she said, forcing her voice a little. She turned to Charlotte. “My husband’s son by his first wife. I hope you do not mind? It will only be a matter of courtesy, and I do not wish you to feel as if you must leave.”
“But if it is a family matter,” Charlotte felt compelled by duty to offer, “might my presence not cause embarrassment? Surely—”
“No, not at all. We are not close. Indeed your presence may very well make it easier—for both of us.”
It was so clearly a plea, for all the formality of her words, that Charlotte felt excused to stay, and wished she had not been.
The parlormaid returned and showed in a man perhaps ten years younger than Amethyst, very lean, with a sensitive face now almost white with tension. He looked only momentarily at Charlotte, but she knew he was disconcerted to see her there, and it robbed him of what he had intended to say.